


Steady to the Catch

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Budding Love, College, College Sports, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hate to Love, Locker Room, M/M, Romance, Roommates, Rowing, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 146,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rowing AU.</p><p>Jean Kirschtein is a third year college student at Trost University, and part of their rowing team. His esteemed boat - the mixed gender 8 - has been a consistent source of medals and wins for the team. Jean loves rowing more than he's ever loved anything else. And everything was going just fine, until one of the members of his boat graduates, and some new kid named Marco is set to fill his spot. </p><p>Jean wants to hate Marco, he really really does. But no matter how he tries, he just can't get the freckled bastard off his mind. And he's a little bit worried that the feelings that are bubbling up in his chest might be more than friendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna thank my lovely beta, [freckledjeankirschtein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledjeankirschtein), thank you, sweetie! 
> 
> Given that this is a Rowing AU, at the beginning of each chapter I'll give a brief list of terms that will be used, just so there's no confusion. :)  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious about a visual representation of the lineup, you can find one [HERE](http://i.imgur.com/r4elXEZ.jpg)
> 
> Chapter Terms:  
>  **Mixed 8+:** A boat in which there are four male rowers and four female rowers, and each rower only has one oar (8 total oars) + a coxswain.  
>  **Coxswain:** Lightweight person who steers the boat, shouts commands, motivates rowers, etc… (Armin in this story)  
>  **Stroke Pair:** The "first" two rowers in a boat, seats 8  & 7\. They lead and set the pace of the boat.  
>  **Engine Room:** The middle four rowers in a boat; seats 6, 5, 4,  & 3\. Usually comprised of the strongest rowers.  
>  **Bow Pair:** The "last" two rowers in a boat; seats 2  & 1\. They are critical elements in the boat's stabilization.  
>  **Empacher:** A very good brand of rowing shell. They do make pink boats, as seen [HERE](http://40.media.tumblr.com/e2b18d2096eb90bc7579ce55bd607314/tumblr_ms873rqy0L1rqyk40o1_1280.jpg), they really are pretty.

Every story has to start somewhere, right? Look, I know that’s a cliché thing to say, just bear with me, yeah? Every story has to start somewhere, and I guess many would argue that the best place to start is at the beginning. But granted, if I did that, we would be here for weeks. I mean, do you really care to start all the way back at the beginning? Do you honestly want to hear about my childhood? Do you _really_ want to hear about that time I broke my nose on the monkey bars because Connie was being a rowdy little shit? Or about the time I sprained my ankle playing chase because I was trying to impress Mikasa on the playground? The answer is no. No, you don’t. 

Every story needs to start somewhere, I suppose, but every story needs to start at the right spot. And the right spot for this story happens to be in my third year of college. 

My name is Jean Kirschstein, I’m a 20 year old (going on 21) neuroscience major at Trost University. I’m tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome……. Fine, no, not really. Stop looking at me like that. Okay so, I’m tall and kinda lanky, but I got some muscles to boot. I’m also pale enough, that in the right light, I could blind the moon. Perpetually grumpy and a wee bit conceited, I’m also one of the best rowers on the TU crew team. 

But this isn’t really a story about me. 

Well, okay, so I suppose it’s a story about me technically, given that I’m the one telling it, and it involves me, and… it’s… from my perspective… But… Semantics, right? 

No, this is a story about Marco Bodt. 

For the last three years, I’ve been on the rowing team here at Trost University, and for the last two years I’ve held the spot of seat 7 in the Mixed 8+ boat – the pride and joy of the TU Fleet. Sat inside a bright pink Empacher, aptly named The Pink Panther (hey, don’t judge, the German national team rows in a bright pink boat too, and they’re doing just fine), was me and the stroke seat, Thomas. Bertholdt, Reiner, Ymir and Krista made up the engine room, and Sasha and Mikasa brought up the bow. We’d been a set line up for the last four race seasons, and we hadn’t walked away from a regatta without a medal in god knows how long. 

At least, that’s how things _were_ , until Thomas decided to be an overachiever and graduate early, leaving our prized boat without a stroke seat for the upcoming spring season. 

And that’s when _he_ happened. 

Marco-freaking-Bodt.


	2. Race Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The racing life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Terms  
>  **Novice** : New rowers (first two seasons of rowing), typically freshmen.  
>  **Unisuit/Uni** : A one-suit made of spandex that rowers wear.  
>  **Coxbox** : Not as dirty as it sounds, I promise. It is the piece of equipment the coxswain uses in the boat. It has a microphone and gives the coxswain info regarding stroke rate, average splits, etc...  
>  **Power 10** : Ten strokes, as called/counted by the coxswain, in which a rower gives as much power as they can possibly exert (150% power).  
>  **Way Enough** : An order for the rowers to stop rowing. It's usually pronounced "Waynuff" in the United States.  
>  **Starboard** : Right side of the boat when you are the coxswain, but since rowers are backwards, a starboard rower's oar is on their LEFT.  
>  **Port** : Left side of the boat, but rowers are sitting backwards, a port rower's oar is on their RIGHT.  
>  **Hold Water** : Rowers put their oar blades vertical in the water to create drag and slow or stop the boat’s forward movement.  
>  **Quad** : A sculling boat consisting of four rowers and typically no coxswain, though some have coxswains. Each rower in a sculling boat has two oars, one in each hand. (So a boat of four rowers would have eight total oars).

“That’s it, everyone! Keep up that _power_ , keep _hard_ on that pressure! Push it out! Dig deep! I want everything you’ve got, right here, right now!” Armin shouts through the microphone.

It’s times like these that make me question every decision I’ve ever made in my life that led to this moment. 5500 meters into a 6000 meter race, lungs barely able to catch a breath, hands raw, blisters popped from the constant rub of the oar against them. Sweat is dripping from every single pore of my body, my unisuit is drenched, I’m sure. The sweat’s been running down into my eyes for at least a 1000 meters now, and it stings like fuckin’ hell, but I don’t dare lift a hand to wipe it away. Both hands on the oar, Jean. One screw up could doom the whole boat. And Coach Levi would have my ass.

It’s the last 500 meters of this hell of a race, and we’ve just about caught the boat in front of us. Fall season races were great – rather than starting head to head, each boat started alone, with 15 seconds between each launch. At that point, the entire race becomes a game of “see how many boats we can overtake”. I think our record is 10 in one race. The best part is, that the minute you close the gap between yourself and the boat in front of you, you already know you’ve beaten them. 

It’s a good feeling - passing a boat - and it’s really the only thing motivating me at this point. Armin’s shouted commands are helpful, but this far into a race, the only thing I can really think about is the atrocious burn in my quads from the lactic acid buildup and the way that CLIF Bar I ate earlier _really_ wants to come back up on me. 

I can vomit later. Right now, we just have to reach the finish line. 

“Bring me past them!” Armin shouts as we pull up even beside the other boat. I can’t even tell who they are, the colors of their unisuits and oars are blurred together in my tired eyes. All I know is that they don’t stand a chance against us. As far as I’m concerned, we’d beaten them before they’d even touched the water, and I want to make sure they know it. 

The last 500 meters belongs to us; and it always has. 

“That’s it, ladies and gents, I want _control_ up that slide! Don’t rush your strokes! We are dead even with this other boat! I want to move it forward, let’s go!” 

I grit my teeth and brace myself for the power ten I know is coming. I wonder how close we are to the finish line now. 

Eyes front, Jean. Watch Thomas’s back. Do _not_ screw this up. This could be the difference between first and second place. 

“Alright guys, I wanna pass them. Give me a Power Ten in two strokes, everything you got, I wanna take their stroke pair! One, two! Let’s go, Power Ten! **ONE!** ” 

You would never think _that_ voice could come out of sweet, mild-mannered Armin, but there it is, shouting like a goddamn slave driver on a Viking ship. All he needs is a whip and a drum to really complete the image. Maybe a hat with horns. 

I straighten up my back, making sure not to slouch, and I let myself fall into the hard, painful, beautiful rhythm of our boat as the power just _surges_ , as Armin counts out with determination and command. 

“ **Two! Three!** That’s it! **Four!** ” 

All I can hear is the loud, unified CLICK from our oars at the finish of the stroke. I can hear the blood pumping through my veins almost in time with Armin’s chanting. 

“I’ve got their 5 seat now, come on, bring me up, **Five!** ” 

Passing 5 seat now, get it moving to 4 seat. Take them. _Ruin_ them.

I can hear the crowd at the finish line cheering, boisterous and rowdy as we approach them. We have to pass this boat all the way. We’ve already beaten them, but I want more than that. I want to rub their faces in it. I want to destroy their morale. I want to make this other boat work harder than they’ve ever worked before and _still_ only come in second. 

I never said I wasn’t overly competitive.

“ **Six! Seven!** Don’t you dare let up! I’m at their bow pair, I want open water between us! **Eight!** That’s it, perfect, keep it hard!”

I can hear Bertholdt’s wheezing breath behind me, and Reiner’s angry, powerful grunts with each and every stroke he takes. Hold onto it, almost there. 

“ **Nine!** That’s it, get us over that finish line! **Ten!** ” 

I hardly register it when we surge past the finish line. And the sudden shift in Armin’s voice is so fucking welcomed. He goes from hard, commanding, and fierce to soft, congratulatory, and comforting in 0.2 seconds flat, and I’ve never been happier to hear it. 

“And ease it down! Ease down. You are done, kids, you are past that finish line. Great job!” He encourages into the microphone.

It’s almost astounding how quick the pressure behind our oars changes. The minute our little blonde coxswain tells us we’ve crossed the finish line, the power behind our strokes just _dies_ in sweet, sweet relief. I cough hard, desperately trying to catch my breath as we all take short, easy strokes away from finish line and back towards our dock. That was the best part about races on home water; we didn’t have to launch from the race site’s docks, instead we’re allowed to utilize our home dock. Made things at least a thousand times simpler for us.

“That was really incredible, everyone. You all fought so, so well. But do not way-nuff, we gotta get away from the course and back to the dock.” 

No one says anything for a while as we take easy, gentle strokes; the whole boat is a chorus of heavy breathing, coughing, and pained groans (the groans mostly coming from Sasha, I note). Armin is focusing hard on where he’s steering, adjusting the rudder as he leans to look around us. 

“Way-nuff, all…” He says into the mic softly, and we dutifully (and fucking happily) stop rowing. “Starboards hold water.” With a quick flick, I turn my oar and place it vertical in the water, as do Reiner, Krista, and Mikasa, feeling the boat slow and turn from the pressure of our oars. 

“Sasha and Ymir, two light strokes please.” 

The boat turns a bit more until it’s straight and pointed back down the riverside towards the Trost U. dock. 

“Good, thanks. Bow four, ready to row, ladies. And row. Stern four, catch your breath for a minute.” 

As the boat begins to creep along, the ladies taking gentle strokes to bring us home, I see Thomas – smiling ear to ear – crane his head back to look at me. Clutching his oar to his chest with his right arm, he holds up his left expectantly. I don’t wait before giving him a tired high-five and a happy nod. I’m breathing a bit too hard for words at this point. 

“That was awesome, Kirschstein, really.” Thomas says with a big grin. 

“Thanks man…” Huff, huff, huff. “Damn fine job, yourself.” 

“So Reiner,” I hear Ymir call from 4 seat. “How much of that sweat is yours and how much of it is Bert’s?” 

The whole boat laughs hard, even Armin, who tries to stifle his giggle away from the microphone of the coxbox. 

“I dunno, I kinda like the way he spritzes me! Nothing like a good cool down spray during a race!” Reiner smarts back, earning a chorus of “Ew!”s from the rest of the boat. I turn my head and smile mockingly at Bertholdt, who is just shaking his head and hiding his face in shame. 

“I do not… _spritz_ , thank you very much.” Bert croaks out. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Reiner says, rubbing a hand along Bertholdt’s sweating back, “you can spritz me anytime.” 

“Oh my god.” I groan, turning my attention back to Thomas and Armin in front of me. 

“Hey, can the ladies get a fuckin’ break back here, please?” Sasha groans out from the bow. 

“Oh, right…” Armin starts. “Yeah, in two, bow four drop out, stern four jump in, gentlemen. One, two.” 

Without a hitch, the gents and I are rowing seamlessly together as the ladies in the bow stop and catch their breath. I glance my head back to see how close we are to the dock. We’re coming up on it quickly, I note with relief, just a little bit longer until I can vomit, curl into a ball, and go comatose for the rest of the day. 

Back at the dock, Coach Levi is waiting for us, ready to catch us as we glide in. Armin commands us up and out of the boat as we hurry to grab our shoes and get our oars out of the riggers. I can hear Hanji before I see her, sprinting her way down the dock, blathering on and on about what a race that was, asking how sweaty we are, demanding high fives from all of us, before running towards the other end of the dock to catch the men’s quad that’s rowing its way in. 

“Alrighty, hands on!” Armin calls out as we grab onto the boat. “Up to waist, and up! Up over heads, and up!” 

We hoist the boat effortlessly, reaching it up over our heads without a hitch. Except for poor, short Krista, who’s staring up at the boat, hands outstretched and still unable to reach it. I hear her sigh and mumble “Why do I even bother…” 

“Don’t worry, babe, I got you covered.” Ymir grins down at her as Armin continues his instructions.

“Split heads, down to shoulders and down!

The boat on our shoulders, we head up the ramp towards the boathouse. My sweat-drenched uni is starting to chafe me as I’m walking, and god, I can _already_ smell myself. My only comfort is the fact that I’m by far not the smelliest of the bunch. The award goes either to Bertholdt or Reiner, and it isn’t a prize I’m really trying to win. 

We get the boat put up and trudge agonizingly up the stairs to the rec-room of the boathouse, before I hear the Ravenor Herself growl from behind me, 

“Oh my god, are those hot dogs? Move!” 

Sasha darts in past us, already grabbing a plate and piling it high with whatever items she can fit from the smorgasbord. How the hell can she think about food right now? My food from earlier is still threatening to come back up, I can’t imagine shoving anything else down my gullet for a good long while. I peel the top half of my uni down, happy to feel the cool air against my bare chest as I flop down onto the floor, lying on my back and stretching out. I hear Levi and Hanji walk in and I turn my head to face them, not bothering to move from my spot on the floor. 

“Alright, you unholy terrors. Sit down and relax, I’m heading over to the regatta site with Hanji to get the results. Sasha, try not to choke. I’m not cleaning up whatever nastiness you spew out.” 

She nods frantically, mouth still full, as some crumbs from a Nature Valley bar fall down her chin. I can almost _see_ Levi’s eye twitch as he lets out a brief “ugh…” and turns to leave. 

::

At some point, I must have closed my eyes and drifted off, because all of a sudden a foot is digging its way into my ribs. I jolt upward and see Reiner towering over me. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty, coach has the results.” 

I rub a hand over my bleary eyes, noting that the rest of the team has filtered into the boat house. Sitting up, I glance over at the buffet of food, or at least, what’s left of it. It looks like a tornado blew through it, leaving merely dirtied paper plates, wadded up napkins, and crumbs. It’s looking like if I want anything to eat, I’m stuck with celery sticks and a mostly empty dipper of ranch dressing. No thanks. 

Wrapping my arms around my legs, I watch as Levi and Hanji head to the front of the room. They’ve got a large paper bag in tow. That’s always a good sign. Bags mean medals. I can’t help the smug, satisfied smile that sneaks its way across my lips. Levi lets out a shrill whistle, and the busy chatter in the room dies down almost immediately. 

“Alright, little twerps first!” He calls out, as Hanji smacks his arm, saying “Levi!” harshly, as if to scold him. “Sorry, I mean _novice_ first.” 

He clears his throat, holding the paper up to his face dramatically. Such a theatrical little bastard. It’s amazing he packs that much drama into such a tiny figure. 

“Novice Men’s Eight: out of 35 total boats, you placed 6th!” 

The room claps and I see the novice men, whose names I honestly don’t know, grin and begin to clap each other on the shoulders. 

“Novice Women’s Eight: out of 38 boats, placed 3rd!” 

Hanji lets out a shrill cheer. The novice boats are like her babies, and she always devotes so much time and manic energy into encouraging them and doing everything she can to make them into respectable rowers. I have to smile a little as she hands out the bronze medals to the novice ladies; it reminds me of the first race I ever medaled in, and how ecstatic Hanji had been for us – she sang our praises for the rest of the freaking season. She’s got a few bats in her belfry, that’s for sure, but not a damn soul can claim that she isn’t the most genuine and encouraging person you’ll ever meet. 

“Great job, ladies.” Levi says sincerely, with as much of a smile as I think he’d ever show. He clears his throat again. 

“Varsity Mixed Quad: Out of 15 boats, you placed 2nd. Excellent work.”

Eren is the first one off the floor at the announcement of the quad’s victory. I can’t help but roll my eyes. Yeah, he’s a fine rower, and I suppose he’s a halfway decent stroke seat in a quad, but that cocky attitude and his, well, _obsession_ (to put it lightly) with Coach Levi is enough to make me bristle. Eren smiles like a goddamn love-struck teenager when he takes the bag of medals from Levi, lingering for a moment too long, before rushing back to join Connie, Mina, and Hannah, eagerly passing out their medals.

“And last but not least, Varsity Mixed Eight: Out of 24 boats, you placed 1st.” 

Hanji lets out a loud whoop, as the rest of my boat begins to cheer. 

“Fuck yeah!” Reiner shouts, pumping a fist in the air, before lowering it quickly at Levi’s stern glare. “Sorry…” He mumbles, before turning and clutching Bertholdt up and squeezing him tightly. 

Armin stands up from the floor and moves to grab the bag of gold medals, high fiving Eren as he walks by, and proceeds to pass them out to us with the wide, happy grin of a proud coxswain. 

“Alright, everyone, quiet down,” Levi calls out, “We have a few things to wrap up before I send you on your way. First and foremost, I want to congratulate you all. Each and every one of you worked extremely hard all season and Hanji and I both are very proud to call you our rowers. Head of the Rose is always such a large-scale and grandiose regatta, and you all really went above and beyond.” 

Hanji nods hard with a large smile on her face before she speaks. 

“Yes, you’re all amazing and you did great. Next season, we have a lot to work on, and I’m sure you’re excited for the spring season. Novice, you’re gunna have a heck of a ball during the spring.” 

“That being said,” Levi starts, reclaiming the attention of the room, “I can’t send you on your way just to let you become squishy little weaklings over break. I’m sending you with workouts that are to be completed four times a week for the duration of your winter break. Bear in mind that if you do _not_ do your workouts, I _will_ know when you get back, and you’ll be running laps until you puke, _Sasha_.” 

Sasha puts on a nervous grin, and forces out a hesitant laugh. I can see the terror in her eyes at the memories of last spring season, when she had come back from break without so much as completing a single workout. While the rest of us went out on the water, Levi had stuck Sasha running laps until the sun set. Levi doesn’t mess around when it comes to responsibility and training. Yeah, his workouts are hard as hell, but the punishments for not doing the workouts are always 20 times worse… It’s always best to just avoid the punishment altogether.

“And on a sadder note,” Hanji begins, “we all know that our dear Thomas is graduating and leaving us.” 

Thomas gives a curt nod and a bittersweet smile, and I can see the sadness in his eyes at the thought of leaving. I put a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze and a pat as Hanji continues. 

“Thomas, you’re a great guy, a great rower, and a great stroke seat, and I know that myself, Levi, your boat, and heck, the whole team, are just going to miss you something fierce. But we know you’ll do so well out in the world.” 

Thomas smiles a big smile and mutters out a thanks as Hanji rushes over and hugs him hard. 

“Absolutely, we will,” says Levi, “This also however means that the mixed boat is in need of a stroke seat for the upcoming season.” 

“We don’t have enough people though,” I chime in hesitantly, glancing around the room. They sure as hell wouldn’t put a novice into the mixed boat, and we can’t put another girl in it because of regulations… I furrow my brow as my eyes land on Eren, who’s glowering at me from across the room. Oh god… Oh god, no. 

“Someone could always race twice if necessary.” Mikasa says calmly, also shooting a glance towards Eren then back to me. 

“Oh hell no,” the little twerp starts, “I’m not rowing in front of Horse-Face. He’d stab me in the back and let me die before he even thought about following me.” 

I’m about to retort, ready to smart off back to him, call him a bitch or whatever other name popped into my head, when I stop myself, opting instead to simply shrug and nod. Because it’s true… I probably would.

“Well, you aren’t wrong, dickwad.” 

“Tone it down, you brats!” Levi says sternly. Eren quiets down immediately, glancing down at the floor with a flushed look of embarrassment. Easiest way to get him to shut his trap was to get his idol to shout at him. I smirk hard and turn my attention back to the front. 

“Director Smith and I have been discussing it for a time now. There’s a transfer student coming in next semester to TU. He’s good, he’s experienced, and he’s well-mannered, which is something you all _desperately_ could stand to learn. But best of all, he has a lot of experience as a stroke seat. He will be joining us when the school year resumes.”

“Wait, so we’re just gunna let some new guy take over as stroke in our best boat?” I ask incredulously. 

“Shove it, Kirschstein, I don’t want to hear it. He’ll prove his worth. If he is good enough, I’ll place him where I see fit. And if he isn’t, we’ll make other arrangements as necessary. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir…” I respond softly, glancing towards the floor, then over at Thomas who smiles sympathetically at me. 

“Alright, that’s all we have for you today! Get on out, enjoy your break!” Hanji shouts out, beckoning the team with a quick flail of her arms, “But first, hands in, all of you.” 

With a small grin, I shove off the floor and shove my way in between Ymir and Bertholdt, shoving my hand into the circle with my teammates. 

“Titans, on three!” Armin calls out happily. “One, two, three –“

“ **TITANS!** ” We all shout huskily before we break apart, laughing and smiling. Except for me, that is. I toss a few smiles towards my comrades, before slinking off to grab my duffel bag. 

I give Thomas a quick hug, telling him it was great rowing with him, and asking him to please keep in touch.

But as I’m heading out towards my Jeep, I can feel the worry building up inside me already. Just thinking about his departure is making my stomach twist up. Thomas and I had never been super close outside of crew, really. Sure, a smile in halls of the dorms, or a question outside of lecture about practice that day, but that was really the extent of our non-rowing interaction. So it isn’t so much that I’m upset about him leaving; like I said, we hardly even interacted when we weren’t at practice. He had his friends, and I had mine, and I liked it that way. I’m not emotionally devastated about one of my fellow rowers graduating, by any means. But rather… I’m nervous simply because I wonder what his departure means for the spring season, and I wonder what it means for my boat. 

And if I’m honest, I’ve never really been good with change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta, [freckledjeankirschtein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledjeankirschtein). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. You'll be meeting Marco in the next chapter!


	3. Sit Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter break and an itch for the water. Jean tries not to worry about the upcoming season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Terms  
>  **Erg** : A rowing machine. Also knowing as the Ultimate Torture Machine to rowers.  
>  **2k** : A 2000 meter erg piece at race pace - as hard and powerful as a rower can do. These were created by Satan himself.  
>  **Sweep Rowing** : Each rower only has one oar.  
>  **Bisweptual** : A sweep rower who can row both sides - port or starboard - fluidly.

Break goes well enough, I suppose. Since I graduated high school, I’ve never really had much of an urge to return home. College had always been a welcomed ticket away. It isn’t so much that I dislike being home, but rather that I feel… out of my element. No one should feel out of place at home, and yet here I sit at the dinner table with my mother and father, eating a meal that our family chef, Denise, had made, and wondering exactly how long I had to stay at the table before it was socially acceptable for me to excuse myself.

Toying with my green beans a bit, I glance up at my father. We’ve already gone through all the pleasantries: how is school, how is crew, how are my grades, am I getting along with my friends still. I suppose I should be grateful for parents who at least want to ask about how I’m doing, even if my responses don’t matter all that much.

Glancing down at my plate again, I figure that a few bites of dinner and a couple conversation pieces should be enough to get an easy yes as I request to leave the table. My father merely nods, and my mother, dutiful as she always tries to be, glances at my barely touched plate.

“Oh, honey, did you eat enough?”

“Yeah, mom. I snacked a bit on the drive back. I’m just not super hungry.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I scoop my plate up and move towards the kitchen, leaning over to give my mother a brief kiss on the cheek. We may not connect much, but I’m nothing if not a grateful son for what they’ve given me: a comfortable life and a good education. Sliding into the kitchen, my eyes land on Denise, standing at the sink, placing a couple dishes down into the soapy water.

She’s a short woman, with tight ringlet curls that she’s always got haphazardly pulled up into a bun. Her skin is a gorgeous olive and flawless in a way that defies aging; she’s looked the exact same since I was a child, and I honestly can’t figure out how she does it except maybe through ritualistic sacrifice. I move towards the sink to plop my dishes down and give her a brief hug, thanking her for the meal. She smiles and ruffles my hair, before I see her side-eying my still-full plate.

“Oh uh… It-It was delicious…” I start with a stutter.

“Sweetie, I _know_ it was delicious – I didn’t go to culinary school for nothing – no, I’m just wondering why you didn’t bother to eat it.”

“Please, Neesey, I’ve been home a day, let’s at least wait a week before you and mom start tag-teaming with the mother-henning.”

“You missin’ the water already, darlin’?” She asks in that lilting voice, that small southern twang seeping its way into it as she speaks.

“You know me too well.”

“Jean, you’ve got two moods: Grumpy and Rowing, and I don’t see an oar in your hand or a boat under your butt, so it’s gotta be the first one.”

“Thanks.” I deadpan at her. She doesn’t acknowledge my snark.

“But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something else bugging you? Y’all won your last race, didn’t you?”

“Sure did…” I move to the fridge and take out a bottle of water, twisting open the lid and leaning back against the counter as I sip it. I wait for another beat before speaking up softly.

“Thomas is graduating early.” I say matter-of-factly.

“Thomas… Thomas… He that one you been a pair with for a while now?”

“That’s him, yeah. Levi says they’re bringing in some transfer student to take over as stroke seat…”

“And you’re worried that… what… he won’t be as good?” She flicks on the water and lets the sink fill up.

“I dunno, I guess. Or just that we won’t click. Worried that we’ll have to change the whole line up if this new guy doesn’t work out. Worried that – god for-fuckin- _bid_ tha-“

“ _Language_!”

“Sorry… Worried that I’ll get stuck with Jaeger for the rest of the year.”

“Ahhh, I doubt your coach would put the two of you together, sweetie.” She mumbles with a tilt of her head and a chuckle, dunking one of the plates down into the soapy water.

“Eren’s a good rower – as much as that pains me to say – and he’s a half-decent stroke seat when he wants to be…”

“I more meant that I don’t think that prissy clean-freak of a coach of yours is gunna be willing to clean up the inevitable bloodshed if you two are a pair.”

“…Valid point.”

We don’t say much more, as I slouch back against the countertop, downing the last drops of water from my water bottle before capping it and tossing it in the recycling. Denise is just finishing up with some of the dishes. I offer to help her out but she shakes her head, telling me that she’s got it handled.

As I turn to leave and head upstairs, she calls out for me, drying her hands steadily on her jeans. She strides toward me and pats my cheek.

“Don’t fret over it, sugar. Ain’t nothing you can do to change it, so it’s best to just go with it as it comes.”

::

I spend the remainder of my winter break on the erg (rowing machines, for the layperson) or jogging the neighborhood. As much as I _loathe_ running, I know it’s likely best I just suck it up and get it done, because Levi will undoubtedly have us running ungodly distances when we get back. It’s almost like a spring tradition for the little prick: We finish up the fall semester, enjoy the winter break, then return to crew fresh faced and ready for the spring season, and it all goes horribly wrong because we then get beaten into shape by a man who’s got a Napoleon Complex bigger than the whole of Europe. And yet, there’s something almost insulting about someone of Levi’s stature being as capable and, frankly, intimidating as he is. And honestly, if it isn’t Levi’s cold, calculating torture abusing us back into respectable rowers, it will be Hanji’s manic energy riding atop our shoulders with a whip. Metaphorically speaking, of course. 

But as nice as it is to be away from academia for a while, and to get away from the stinging riding crop of angry miniature coaches, I’m ready to get back to it. I'm happy to be back at school. My whole body has been itching to get bsck, so anxious to get back out on the water, to feel an actual oar in my hand, to feel the powerful gliding of the boat as it courses seamlessly through the water. There’s a vivacious feeling of being in a boat that just can’t be matched on the erg.

What I’m _not_ looking forward to, however, is my neurobiology course that somehow managed to schedule itself _right_ before crew practice every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. What kind of bullshit is this? I’m positive that I registered for the 10 am class, not the 1:45 pm session, and yet there it is, staring out at me from my computer screen. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, from 1:45 to 3:45, then somehow, crew from 4:15 until Levi decides we’ve worked hard enough and thrown up enough to let us go.

God almighty, why?

Sitting alone in my dorm, I close my laptop in frustration. The rest of my schedule looks fine, I suppose. 8 am cognitive psychology on Monday, Wednesday, Friday. 8 am organic chemistry on Tuesday and Thursday, and 10 am painting on Tuesday and Thursday, because fuck you, I like a lot of different things and I’ll be damned if I can’t be nerdy, athletic, and artistic all in one. (Seriously, I warned you I was a bit conceited; take it or leave it, friend).

Reiner and Bertholdt won’t be getting in until later tonight, and Connie is conked out on the sofa in the common room of our suite already (seriously, I feel like all that boy does is sleep… if he could figure out a way to sleep while rowing, he probably would), so I don’t have much to do aside from dread my first day of classes and to think about this mysterious transfer student more.

How long has this guy been rowing? How were his erg scores? How long has he stroked? Does he only row port or is he bisweptual? (For those of you playing at home, “ _bisweptual_ ” is a term for people who can row either side of the boat – port or starboard – fluidly. I suppose that technically, I, myself, am bisweptual, if only because one of Levi’s favorite punishments for slacking is to make a rower switch sides, and I have been on the receiving end of said punishment more than I care to admit… Not meeting Levi’s expectations in the boat that day? Take yourself a seat rowing the other side. Just take my word for it when I say that suddenly having an oar on your right rather than on your left is a lot more jarring that one might expect.)

The more I think about this guy, though, the more frustrated I become. Over break it had been easy enough to keep him off my mind; between the workouts, the running, the awkward pleasantries with my family, Christmas, and the New Year, there had been plenty of distractions to prevent my thoughts from lingering on him. But now, sitting in my dorm with nothing but my thoughts and the first day of practice looming over my head, I can’t help but feel anxious. Surely Levi won’t have us on the water the first day… He never _ever_ puts us on the water the first day back from break. And he surely wouldn’t just toss this guy in as stroke seat the first day back either… _Surely_ , he might ease us into it, at least…

The longer I think about tomorrow, the more I’m beginning to question it, a little bundle of nerves building up in the pit of my stomach. We haven’t had an experienced transfer come on board since I’d been rowing here… The only newbies have been the novice. And I suppose I should be happy that at least this guy has experience, but are we really expecting this unnamed transplant to just waltz on board as if it were no big deal?

I’m a little bitter, at first… Then frustrated… I’m edging towards hostile when I force myself to remember that this guy is new here… He could be freaking out about tomorrow just as much as I am. I lean back heavily in my desk chair, lacing my fingers behind my head as I hear the door to our suite’s common room open and slam shut. A hesitant smile graces my lips as I hear Connie grumbling, so obviously unhappy about being woken by the sudden hustle and bustle in the room. That can only mean Reiner and Bert are back. I stand with a sigh, ready to just _forget_ about this new guy as I slide out into the common room. It hasn’t been 2 seconds before Reiner has his sights set on me and barrels towards me for a rather, um, shall we say ‘aggressive’ hug.

I squirm as he lifts me off the ground, shaking my body like a ragdoll while Bertholdt looks on with a grimace. I try to plead with him silently, willing Bertholdt to take control of his bear, but he just shakes his head with smile and turns away, leaving me to my fate.

Betrayer.

“Rei. Ner. Can’t. Breathe.” I huff out with each shake.

He drops me hard and ruffles my hair.

“Missed you too, piss-ant.”

I don’t even have a chance to respond before Reiner is moving towards the couch, abruptly lifting Connie’s slight form and sitting him upright like he were nothing. Connie flails, but it does nothing to stop Reiner from claiming one of the cushions.

“Damn, can’t a man sleep around here?” He huffs out, curling against the arm of the couch with a pout.

“In their bed they can. Claiming the couch is survival of the fittest, my friend.” Reiner laughs out, before jutting an arm out, hooking his fingers in Bertholdt’s belt loops and tugging him down onto his lap. For all his height and physical stature, Bertholdt doesn’t even struggle as Reiner plops him down atop his lap.

I figure it isn’t worth the struggle of wedging between my friends and opt for the rug between the couch and the TV. I cross my legs and stare up at them for a moment as they fuss and fumble, eventually settling down with Connie crammed against a couch arm, Bertholdt in the middle, and Reiner leaning against him on the other side.

“You guys do your workouts?” I ask offhandedly, knowing full-well what all their answers will be. Reiner and Bertholdt probably did, Connie… probably didn’t. My suspicions are only confirmed when Connie grunts and scoffs.

“Shit nah, man… Didn’t have much choice, either. Every time Sash and I would head out to run, she’d always drag us on some route past a freaking taco stand or a frozen yogurt place. You can guess what happened, I don’t need to spell it out for you.”

“Levi’s gunna have your ass, Con…” Bertholdt says with a shake of his head.

 "Oh, what’s he gunna do? Kick me out of the quad? I’m one of four rowers on this team who can scull worth a damn. There isn’t a quad without me. Sasha on the other hand….” Connie mumbles, tilting his head in silence, as if to accentuate what he didn’t want to say. “She’s… she’ll be getting laps for a while, I’m betting. But she brought it on herself.”

"Ten bucks says you’ll get laps too,” I smart back at him with a laugh.

“You’re on, Frenchy.” 

There’s a lull, and I can’t help but think back to this kid who’s joining the team tomorrow. I clear my throat.

“So… How you guys feeling about this new guy?”

Bertholdt shrugs.

“Eh, it is what it is. But I heard he’s really good. Could be what we need.”

Reiner nods, glancing back at me before adding onto Bertholdt’s comment.

“I mean, Thomas was good, but this guy could be just as good. Could even be better. Who knows. Why? You freakin’?”

“Not… ‘ _freakin’_ , thank you. Just wondering how it’s gunna go.”

“Eh, we’ve got a bit till we’ll be on the water anyway, so at least we’ll get to see how he does on the erg first.” Reiner pipes up as Bertholdt looks over.

“I hear we might have a 2k test tomorrow…”

My stomach drops.

“Shit, seriously? Nah, he wouldn’t pull that on us first day back….. Would he?”

“I think you are vastly underestimating Levi’s desire to see us suffer, Jean.”

“Fuck…”

In case you’re wondering, a “2k” is a 2000 meter test on the rowing machine. It’s 2000 meters at race pace: as hard as you can, as much power as you can give, as much vomit as you can expel from your stomach. Seriously, you think I’m kidding, I can see you right now, sitting there, reading this text and scoffing to yourself, shaking your naïve little head. I can see you there, saying “Jean, you’re such a drama queen”. And while that _is_ an accurate statement about my penchant for theatrics, I am most certainly _not_ kidding when I say that a 2k is the worst 6.5-9 minutes a rower can endure. On the plus side, they are shorter than fall races by about 3000-4000 meters, but because they are shorter, they are much faster paced and require higher levels of intensity. They're sprints, not endurance races. 

Here’s how 2k’s typically play out: You sit your ass down on that rowing machine and you stare at the screen in front of you with dismay. Slowly, with bitterness building in your chest, and a depressing sense of acceptance flooding your body, you program the monitor to 2000 meters. Strap those feet in, grab that handle, and listen with an unhappy grimace for your coach to tell you to sit at the ready. With a groan that only a person who has suffered such pain numerous other times can make, you bend your legs and wait. And the minute your coach calls the start, you – and the other 20+ rowers in the room with you – push off with your legs as hard as you possibly can, hoping that your first stroke is going to reflect the swiftness and power you desperately need to make it through this hell in one piece.

The only good thing about a 2k is that the harder you pull, the faster the meters count down, and the sooner you’re done with the piece. The bad thing about a 2k is that if you want it to be done quicker, you have to pull harder.

It’s all just terrible.

As you push through each and every painful meter, with your boat’s coxswain making rounds through the room and shouting in your face (thanks, Armin), you feel your breath shortening. Your muscles are burning, chest is tightening, bile is rising up in your throat as you try like hell to keep your chin up, back straight, legs strong, arms swift.

When it’s over, you can hardly breathe and are most likely dripping with sweat. You fumble with your foot straps and collapse down to the floor. And (if you’re _me_ , that is), you army crawl your way to the trash can to vomit. Seriously. It’s disgusting, I know, but it’s what happens and I’m very sorry.

I hang my head as the conversation shifts, Connie, Bert and Reiner chatting about break and the holiday and blah blah blah. In the meantime, I’m sitting there, gnawing at my lip and dreading tomorrow for an entirely different reason than I was before. Hell. The thought of a 2k fills me with more woe than the thought of this new transfer does, so I guess that’s a plus though? All in all, tomorrow is not going to be fun, and I already know it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Marco will be making his first appearance in the next chapter. :) 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com)


	4. Back into the Swing of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's just trying to get back into the rhythm of the semester when this new (admittedly attractive) freckled kid shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't really any rowing-specific terms that need to be mentioned for this chapter, woo! 
> 
> Marco's finally making his first appearance.

Monday comes much sooner than I would like, and I really didn’t get enough sleep. Great start to the semester; first day back and I’m already sleep deprived. I manage to stumble into my 8 am CogPsych just in time, and through some miracle, I manage to keep my eyes open. As soon as the professor (whose name I didn’t manage to remember…) said we were done, I was up out of my seat, bee-lining like a man on a mission towards my dorm. If I pass out within the next… 20 minutes, I think, glancing at the time on my phone, I can get a solid 3-3.5 hour nap before I have to head to NeuroBio. And if Bertholdt wasn’t kidding about the 2k, I need as much extra rest as I can get.

Barging through the door, I see Reiner and Bertholdt sitting on the couch, each with a text book in their laps. They glance up at me as I come in, and I can already see Reiner opening his mouth to speak. I hold a hand up to stop him, bringing a finger to my lips and pointing to my bedroom, before I move wordlessly into my room. It’s a wonder I manage to get an alarm set on my phone before collapsing down into the sheets. Sweet, sweet coziness.

I awake with a start at the deep, piercing sound of a T-Rex roaring. I flail my arms, knocking my phone off the bed in the process before I snatch it back up and fumble to turn the alarm off.

I should really change that alarm.

(I’ve been saying that for a year, though… So it probably won’t happen. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as being awoken from a nap by the threat of a glorious Jurassic Park death.)

It’s 1:00 already, and I’ve gotta go to Neuro, ugh. I groan, pressing my head back down into the pillow before prying myself up out of bed. I run a hand over my face and start to shove my text book and extra notebook in my backpack. Glancing around my room, I’m about to head out when I remember that I’ve got crew right after this class.

“Fuck.” I mutter, grabbing an extra t-shirt and some spandex and shoving them in my bag too. With a sigh, I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab a granola bar from the box by my bed and head through the common room. Bertholdt and Reiner still have their books in their laps, but are leaning on each other, mouths open and snoring softly. Good lord. It’s way too early in the semester for this crap.

Before I leave, I grab a Post-It note from my room, writing “SEE YOU AT PRACTICE, BITCHES” on it before I gently place it on Reiner’s forehead. The big lug doesn’t even stir. With a shake of my head, I start out the door and towards class.

I’m hardly paying attention as I walk in the brisk breeze. I’ve trekked this path so many times that I could probably find my way to the building backwards in my sleep. At least it’s a pretty day, not a cloud in the sky and there’s an electricity in the air that’s only found as the cool winter months begin to ease up, preparing for the upcoming spring. If I had anything to say about my school, I would wax poetic about its beauty. It’s a lush campus, tall, gothic buildings interspersed with beautiful trees, greenery, and large grassy knolls. Situated right on the Rose River, the campus overlooked glorious, glimmering waters, on which I had the privilege to row every day.

I glance down at my phone, idly flipping through the hourly weather. It’s supposed to stay gorgeous for the rest of the day. I sigh. It’s a shame Levi probably won’t let us go on the water today. Getting stuck inside on the ergs on such a beautiful day is always such a downer. There’s an itch in my blood for the water, a yearning for the glassy smooth surface, only broken by the seamless drop of our oar blades as we glide along with power.

I’m lost in my thoughts, when a soft voice beside me catches my attention.

“Excuse me?”

I glance over sharply, my brow furrowed as my eyes land on the source of the voice. A guy with a nervous smile on his face has suddenly appeared beside me, walking briskly enough to match my pace and hanging beside me hesitantly. How long had he been there? I take him in for a moment, not bothering to slow my pace. He’s about my height, maybe a little taller. Broad shoulders, dark hair and a nice olive skin that’s pattered with freckles like someone dribbled paint on him. He isn’t bad to look at, that’s for sure. I smirk at him.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to bug you, just was wondering if you could point me towards uh…” He glances down at a piece of paper gripped between his fingers. “To the Stonehess building?”

I shake my head and chuckle, not slowing my pace.

“You mean ‘Stohess’?”

“Oh, uh…” he takes another glance at the paper, squinting his eyes a bit. “Yeah, Stohess. Sorry. Glasses are in my bag.”

"Sure. I’m heading that way anyway. We’re almost there.”

“Great, thanks.”

I don’t say anything else, turning my head back to the path before me. The guy lets the silence rest for a moment before clearing his throat a little.

“Ah, I’m Marco, by the way.”

I turn back to glance at him.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Jean.”

I can see the science building in the distance, coming into focus, and I lift a hand to point at it.

“That’s Stohess there.”

Marco merely nods, adjusting his bag so it doesn’t slip from his shoulder. There’s a small silence as we approach, and I’m stuck between wondering if I should just let the silence rest or if I should strike up some small talk. It’s awkward either way, so I opt for at least asking him a question or something. Like I said, he isn’t bad to look at, so I may as well _attempt_ to converse a bit.

“You a freshman?” I ask.

“Oh, no. Junior. Just transferred, actually.”

“Cool…” I mumble, unsure of what else to say. I open the heavy glass doors of Stohess and slide inside, Marco following closely. I’m about to just wander off to my class, but I can’t help but notice how this Marco kid is just lingering in the hall, looking helpless as he stares at the paper in his hand and glances down the hall. I roll my eyes and snatch the paper from his hand.

“Lemme see.” I mutter to him, eyes glancing over the page, finding the class and room number.

Fundamentals of Neurobiology, D. Pixis, MWF 1:45 pm, Stohess 103

“Oh. You’re in my class.”

“Neuro?” Marco asks.

“Yeah, man. Just follow me, it’s just down the hall.” 

I turn to walk down the hall and hear Marco chuckle behind me, shuffling quickly to catch up with me.

“Thanks so much, you’re a life saver, um… Jean, right?”

“That’s me.”

Marco follows me into the lecture hall. The room is decidedly empty, and I take a quick glance at my phone to make sure we aren’t too early, but no, it’s 1:20, so others should be showing up soon. I move down the steps, finding a spot in the middle of the room and plop down, tossing my bag into the seat next to me. Marco is still standing on the steps and steadily he moves into my row.

“You mind if I sit with you?”

I quirk an eyebrow. This guy is kind of weird, but he seems harmless enough.

“Whatever floats your boat, dude…” I say with a half-hearted shrug. I can see him relax a bit, a smile gracing his lips as he continues down the row and sits beside me, putting his bag between his feet. He unzips it and rummages through, grabbing a glasses case, a notebook and what looks like a scheduler. He’s organized, that’s for sure… I scoff to myself. He’s a better man than me. The extent of my planning and reminders consists of sloppily written notes on the back of my hand that I usually manage to accidentally wash off before I actually need them. I shake my head and dig my own notebook out of my bag.

We sit in silence for a moment, but I can see him sparing small glances at me in the corner of my eye. I huff out a breath and decide that fine, small talk it is.

“So you transferred here? Where from?” I ask, not looking up from the blank notebook paper in front of me.

“Oh, uh, Jinae.”

I tilt my head, not saying anything at first, a small smirk sneaking onto my lips.

Jinae, yeah, I know the place. It’s a podunk little town with a podunk little college, and one of the  _saddest_ excuses for a rowing team I’ve ever seen. But as I glance back at Marco, I opt to just tell him that Jinae is a very pretty town. Because despite this boy’s impressive build, he looks sensitive enough that you might poke a hole through his middle by breathing on him too hard. It’s probably best I don’t completely diss his old college on our first meeting. Because as much as I don’t really wanna admit it, this guy isn’t too bad to talk to, and he’s certainly pretty easy on the eyes. I can’t say that I wouldn’t mind a new friend, maybe even a little bit of eye candy once in a while.

But as our classmates begin to slowly filter in, I can’t help but let my thoughts drift back to the upcoming practice. Maybe Reiner was right… I should really stop worrying about it, but I just can’t help it. This guy  _had_ to be good. There’s no way that Levi or Erwin would have even considered the new guy if he were some piss-poor rower. So I mean, that’s gotta speak to his credit, at the very least, right? 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco straightening up a bit in his seat, sliding his glasses on, and directing his attention forward, cluing me in that Professor Pixis must have come in. I can’t help but shake my head at Marco’s diligence. First days are the best for slacking, is what I’ve come to learn. Get the syllabus, talk about what we’ll be covering, maybe go over some reading or a short power point. If there’s ever a perfect time to slack off, the first day is the day, even if your professor is Notorious Hardass Dot Pixis. Get away with it while you can.

As the class draws to a close, I stretch out my back and slide my notebook (which is decidedly empty of notes) back into my bag. I’m almost a little remorseful that I’ve gotta ditch Marco now. I figure, what the hell, Jean, bite the bullet for once in your life.

“Hey, Marco.” I say as I stand with another stretch. He darts a bright look up at me, still shoving his notebook and scheduler back into his bag.

“Yeah?”

“Look, I know you’re new, and I hate to ditch you, but I’ve gotta go to practice. But we can hang later if you want.”

He smiles up at me, a bright and genuine smile, his freckles crinkling up as his grin beams up to his eyes. He stands and slings his bag over his shoulder with a nod.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta get to practice too, but here, I can give you my number if you want. We can meet up later?”

“Great, where you headed off to?” I ask idly as he scribbles his number down on a spare piece of paper he pulls from his bag. He doesn’t look up at me as he finishes writing his number down, mumbling out his destination without a thought.

“Oh, just crew practice, you?”

He looks up at me brightly and offers the piece of paper to me, but I’m too busy rewinding and replaying his last statement in my head.

 Did he just say _“crew practice”_? 

 You’ve gotta be _shitting_ me…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to my lovely beta, [freckledjeankirschtein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledjeankirschtein). 
> 
> For reference, Jean's alarm is this: [T-Rex Roar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V595oWP5tSE). This was actually inspired by my own alarm. Seriously. Try waking up to this every morning. I guarantee you'll be ready to fist fight the morning. 
> 
> It's nice to finally see Marco! We'll be seeing him lots more soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!


	5. Tests of Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the team meets Marco, and unfortunately, the first day back means suffering for the rowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Stroke Seat** : The first rower in the boat (originally Thomas, now Marco), 8 seat, sets the pace of the boat. They are supported by their 7 seat (Jean).  
>  **Stroke Rate** : Number of strokes per minute. Steady state runs anywhere from a 22-24 spm usually, fall race pace is usually around 28-30 spm, and spring races are anywhere from 29-32 spm.  
>  **The Catch** : The start of a stroke – legs are bent, arms extended forward, oar resting in the water, ready to pull through.  
>  **The Finish** : The end of the stroke, when the oar is coming out of the water. Legs are flat, arms pulled into the chest, body is angled back slightly.  
>  **Split** : Average split, as shown on the erg or on the coxbox, tells the rower, based on their current amount of power, the time it would take to row 500 meters. **Steady State** for rowers is typically their average split for a 2k (full power), plus 20 secs. So, if a rower has a 2k split of 2:00 min/500 m, then their steady state would be a 2:20/500 m. (Steady state can also be more accurately determined by the rower’s heart rate).

Marco is staring at me with a slightly concerned look on his face, his smile has only faltered a little, but not fully disappeared. It’s only then that I realize he’s been holding the paper with his number on it out for me while I’ve just been staring at him, my mouth hanging slack like a moron.

“Jean?” He asks, waving the paper in front of my face a bit. “Helloooo…?”

I grab it quickly, still staring at him.

“Wait, you?  _You’re_  the transfer?”

“I thought we’d already established that I transferred here?”

“No, no, no. You’re  _the_  transfer? For the crew team?”

“What? Oh… Yeah, I suppose so, why?”

“Ah shit.”

I can see the confusion and offense flash across Marco’s face the minute the swear slips past my lips. My eyes widen and I scramble a bit to try and cover my ass.

“No, no, I just. It surprised me. I’m on the team too…”

“Oh, shit, killer. Good, now I don’t mind asking you to show me where the boathouse is.” Marco says, almost nervously. I do my best to clear my face of my furrowed brow and frown. Instead I nod wordlessly at him and gesture for him to follow me. My mouth is suddenly getting very dry, and all of a sudden, I’m back to waffling between my nerves. I’ve spent the last day and a half shifting between being anxious about the new guy, to freaking out about the possibility of a 2k test, and now I’m a lot more nervous about Marco – the transfer who is supposedly here to replace Thomas – than I am about the 2k Bertholdt had mentioned.

But seriously, though,  _this_  was the transfer student? This was the guy who was set to take over Thomas’s spot? I glance over at Marco as he moves to follow me. I can see his lips moving. He’s talking to me, I’m sure of it, but I’m not really listening anymore, my brain is already in a million other places, none of which are receiving any of Marco’s words.

All I can think about is how fucked the Mixed 8+ is going to be. Marco looks strong enough, but in this sport, looks can sometimes be deceiving, and frankly, what I’ve garnered about his rowing history leaves a lot to be desired... Thomas graduates and we get stuck with some small-town boy from a college whose rowing team  _consistently_  loses to high school teams? Jesus fucking Christ.

What in the  _fuck_  is Levi thinking?

Marco and I are walking across campus, headed towards the soccer fields, the boathouse on the other side coming into view slowly. By now, I’m pretty sure Marco has stopped trying to make conversation: my silence probably cluing him in that I either wasn’t feeling very talkative or that I wasn’t listening. Either way, I’m sure I look like a Class A dickhole, but honestly… well… no, I don’t really have an excuse for it. It’s kind of petty, but the thought of this new kid, this transfer, this  _Marco_  guy is suddenly filling me with anxiety and frankly, a bitter sense of annoyance.

In the silence between us, my thoughts are only interrupted when I hear Reiner and Bertholdt in the distance. They’re making their way across the field and catching up to us. Bertholdt is his usual self – quiet but focused, listening keenly as his boisterous boyfriend yammers on and on in his ear about god only knows what. The four of us converge at the tail end of their conversation. 

“I’m  _serious_  here Bertl, I swear to god. I had totally hoisted the thing over my head and hurled it across the arena! I might have killed a spectator, don’t really remember...” Reiner says, standing face to face with Bertholdt, walking backwards while the brunet rolls his eyes and laughs.

With a quick glance at Marco, I can already feel myself wanting distance between us. It’s nothing personal really, but the sudden realization that  _he_  might be taking Thomas’s place in front of me for the remainder of the season smacks me like a ton of bricks. I told you before, I’ve never been good with change, and to suddenly have the change here, present, in the flesh, and trying to be my friend is a little more than my puny little psyche can take. So I opt for the easy route: avoid Marco’s gaze and focus on my suitemate’s conversation.

“What the fuck are you two on about now?” I ask quirking my brow.

Bertholdt glances at me with an exasperated look and a shake of his head as we continue forward. 

“Reiner dreamt he was in that Disney Hercules movie again, battling the hydra.”

“Uh,  _defeating_  the hydra, thanks.” Reiner chips in sarcastically, before turning his attention to Marco and plastering on a smile. “Who’s your friend, Jean?”

I glance over to Marco quickly, then back to Reiner, still walking backwards in front of the three of us in a line.

“He’s not my friend…” I say quickly, before I’ve really even processed the words.

Real nice, Jean. Class A Dickhole again. Even out of my periphery, I can see the somewhat wounded expression on his face. I’m quick to cover my ass.

“No, I just mean, we just met. But uh, this is Marco. Marco, the loud mouth in front of you is Reiner and that’s Bertholdt.”

Marco slaps on a smile at the two of them, making brief eye contact.

“Ohhh, are you our transfer?” Bertholdt asks him.

Marco nods swiftly.

“Sure am.”

Reiner falls back into line and wraps an arm around Marco’s shoulders.

“Well hot damn, good to have you, man.”

“Thanks,” Marco beams over at him with that bright and radiant smile of his. “I’m pretty excited.” He says next. I just sighed a shook my head.

“You’ll be less excited when you hear what Levi probably has in store for us today.” I sneer at him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Reiner furrow his brow at me in a scowl, clearing disapproving of my tone. I’m about to attempt to save face, but Bertholdt comes to my rescue.

“I think we have a 2k today…” the brunet pipes up.

“Oh, shoot, no way…” Marco groans out. “Not exactly what I was hoping for the first day…”

“Levi takes sick pleasure in our suffering. I personally think he fuels himself on the tears of his slaves.” Reiner mumbles.

“Ignore him, Marco,” Bertholdt chimes in with a shake of his head, removing Reiner’s arm from around Marco’s shoulder and ushering the freckled boy in front of me and the blonde, “he’s known to be a bit… theatrical,” he mumbles to Marco, shooting a glance back at Reiner, who makes a face at his boyfriend, but says nothing.

Bertholdt and Marco start talking a bit more – simple things: where he’s from, what dorm he’s in, what does he think of TU, the usual – and Reiner bumps my shoulder with his as we’re walking.

“Well, he certainly seems nice. Seems to have taken a bit of a shine to you, already though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug, pointedly keeping my gaze on the ground as we walk.

Reiner definitely notices the hesitation in my voice and he leans a little closer, lowering his voice a bit so his words are directed at me and me alone.

“Hey… He’ll do fine.”

“If you say so… You know he’s from Jinae?  _Jinae_ , dude.”

“Ah, just give the kid a chance. Erwin, Hanji and Levi know what they’re doing. …Sometimes… Most of the time…ish...”

“Very reassuring, Reiner.” 

**::**

We all change quickly in the locker room on the ground floor of the boat house before trudging up to the stairs to the erg room to await our fate. Reiner still hasn’t quit pestering Marco, the questions pouring nonstop: what’s his major, how does he like Trost, what dorm is he in, what’s he want to do after college, how long has he been rowing. Marco’s reserve is amazing. I would have told Reiner to shut the fuck up probably 15 questions earlier. But this freckled bastard is just so damn… positive and happy about everything. He answers every question with such saccharine excitement and vigor.

He loves Trost so far, the campus is so beautiful, the city is fun, he’s studying neuroscience, he’s thinking about graduate school, he’s been rowing for about 8 years –

I snap my head over at that. Did he just say 8  _years_ ?

There’s a moment when I’m legitimately surprised, and an inkling of positivity seeps into my brain. Maybe we weren’t so fucked after all. But I shake my head. Any positivity I might have had slips away when  _Jinae_  crosses my mind again.  He might have 8 years under his belt, but from Jinae, who knows what those years have done for him. Assuming he rowed in high school, Jinae’s main high school team is nothing to write home about, and we’ve already covered the pathetic state of Jinae’s college rowing team. 8 years of shit training is just 8 years of ingrained bullshit to work around. 

With a sigh, I move away from the group and fill up my water bottle at the fountain. I crane my head around as Levi… and Director Smith… both filter into the erg room.  _Fuck_ . If Smith is here, we’re definitely doing a 2k. As I’m finishing filling my water bottle, I hear Levi’s shrill whistle, signaling us to gather round and pay attention.

“Welcome back, everyone.” Director Smith starts, “I trust you had an enjoyable break. Nice to see your faces here again, ready for another grueling season.”

Director Smith gestures at Marco, and the brunet hesitantly moves towards the front.

“As many of you know, we have a new rower with us this season. This here is Marco; he just transferred to us from Jinae, and we plan on having him in the Mixed 8+. He’s got a lot of experience under his belt, so I don’t doubt he’s going to be an excellent addition to this crew.”

There is a small chorus of claps and “woos” (in which I pointedly do not take part) tossed towards the freckled man to welcome him as he smiles and gives a curt wave. Director Smith claps him on the shoulder.

“We’re happy to have you, son.”

Marco mumbles a brief thank you before Levi is talking loud over the chatter of the room. 

“Time to get started, hellions.” With a quick point to the ergs, he says “Boats, please arrange your rowing machines side-by-side with your boatmates.”

We all nod silently and begin to rearrange the ergs, rowers in the same boats beginning to align the machines in neat lines beside each other. As we’re doing so, Levi begins to speak again.

“5 minute warm up, everyone. I’ll call the start. Get your butts situated.”

I see Marco step up to Levi and Director Smith, shaking both their hands again with a smile and pointing to the group of ergs that my boat has arranged in a row. I see Levi nod and Marco smiles and moves towards us.

Levi likes us to row by boat, typically. When lineups are more set, rowing side-by-side on the ergs can be a useful tool for making sure we get the feel of each other, how to best match our paces and rhythms. But all I can think about is how 7 of us have been rowing together for two years, and now suddenly we were going to playing off the new guy’s stroke rate.

We’ve got 8 ergs lined up in a row, and Marco moves towards the one furthest to the right, directly to my right. Bertholdt is already situating himself to my left, as Reiner and the others do the same on down the line. Before Marco sits down, he stands and moves closer to my erg, where I’m already strapping in my feet. With a smile, he moves between myself and Bert.

“You guys mind introducing me to the rest of the boat?”

“Sure!” Reiner says enthusiastically, standing up from his erg. He points to me and Bertholdt, “You already met these two assholes.”

He moves down the line, pointing at the ladies.

“That’s Ymir, Krista, Sasha, and Mikasa. Everyone, this is Marco, he’s our new stroke, I think.”

I opt not to say anything during the pleasantries, the ladies welcoming him happily, even Ymir, as Reiner moves back down to his erg, Marco following close.

“So, do you guys usually try and follow the stroke’s rate on your erg pieces, or do we just all try and match each other?” Marco asks softly.

It takes so much restraint to not roll my eyes, that they probably do it despite my best efforts. I’m about to speak up, but I think Bertholdt could sense the sarcasm that was ready to drip off my tongue, and he speaks before I even have the chance.

“It kinda depends. Early in the seasons, before we were really used to each other, we all just kind of agree on a stroke rate and try to match it with each other. Once we all got used to each other, we would just follow Thomas’s lead and change the rates as he saw fit. So we can really work with whatever.”

Marco nods and gives another large grin.

“Well in that case, let’s go with the first option, especially since you all aren’t used to me as a stroke or anything yet.”

“Sounds good, man.” Reiner pipes up, as he’s turning on his erg monitor. 

“What rates do you prefer for your warm ups?” Marco asks again. “I usually stick around a 22-23, if that works?”

“Fine by me,” Ymir states flatly, programing her monitor to read 5 minutes. The rest of the boat agrees.

Marco retires back to his erg beside me as Armin steps up to our row.

“How’s it hanging, kiddos?” The blond asks as he approaches, resting his hands on Reiner’s erg in the middle of our row.

“Ooooh, just peachy, we’re about to go through 8ish minutes of excruciating pain, but no biggie, how’s your day, sugar?” Ymir snarks at him. The comment earns her a wide grin from Armin as he shakes his head.

“No, but seriously, are we actually doing a 2k?” Sasha asks him hesitantly. Armin glances over his shoulder to see if Levi is watching him, and turns back when he sees the coach is engaged in conversation with Director Smith.

With a grimace on his face, he gives Sasha a grim nod.

“Afraid so.”

“God, whyyyyyyyyy?” the brunette groans out. 

“You know Levi, Braus, don’t know why you even have to ask.” Mikasa says flatly.

“Yo, Armin, you meet our new stroke yet?” Reiner calls out, as the blond moves to stand in front of my erg. He smiles at Marco as the brunet is situating himself down on his erg.

“Haven’t yet, but it’s nice to meet you, we’re gunna have a good season, I can tell.”

Marco smiles and shakes his hand, as Levi calls out again, demanding we all sit at the ready.

“5 minutes, warm up, steady state, brats. Sit ready.” The whole room bends their legs and sits up and ready at the catch of their ergs. “And row.”

We all push off simultaneously, and the whooshing sound of the ergs starts up loudly. I watch as the respective rows of boat lineups begin to fall into their rhythms. I watch Marco out of the corner of my eye, matching his strokes with a sort of bitter petulance in my action. As I eye my monitor, holding a steady 2:15 split, I notice that for the last minute and a half, we haven’t wavered once from a 23 stroke rate. Haven’t dropped down to a 22 or jumped up to a 24 for even a single stroke. With a short furrow of my brow, I dare a glance at Marco.

The kid’s form is… oh, who am I kidding, his form is A+, and his stroke is impeccably steady. I should be happy about it because it’s a promising sign for our boat, but I still can’t help the twinge of irritation in my chest. Maybe I hate when all my first impressions are confusing, maybe I hate being wrong, maybe I’m just an asshole, sometimes it’s really hard even for me to tell. But I dutifully follow his strokes throughout the piece, noting the sweet, smooth synchronicity of the eight of us as we row together. It doesn’t look bad… It doesn’t look bad at all.

We finish up the piece and I hop off the erg, not bothering to linger as Marco smiles to his left, directing that grin at anyone who will receive it. I stand and begin to stretch out, my muscles feeling nice and warm, limberness seeping through them.

"Damn, son, you’ve got a consistent stroke.” Reiner belts out at Marco, standing up from his erg and clapping Marco on the back. The blond strides over to the water fountain, fills his water bottle up before returning to stretch beside me.

Armin had drifted away from us during our warm up, moving to chat with Levi, probably about what kind of split goals he’s expecting for today from us, since it’s the first day back. If I know Levi, he’ll want our scores to be at least as good as our fall race splits, if not faster. That’s his usual standard of measurement for determining whether or not we actually did our workouts. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous for Sasha and Connie. The Springles pair are always such a bad influence on each other. But at least if Connie got laps, I’d be 10 bucks richer, so that would be a plus.

Armin moves back towards up, holding a clipboard in one hand, and scribbling something down on it haphazardly. Probably our names and our expected split times.

“Stretch out good, got a couple minutes ‘till Levi will want to start. He wants your splits to be at least as good as your fall splits, ideally, they should be about 5 seconds faster. Don’t let me down.” The blond instructs. Ymir rolls her eyes.

“That’s easy for you to say, cinnamon roll. We actually have to suffer to keep  _our_  spots in the boat. All you have to do is stay tiny.” Ymir laughs hard at her own joke and Armin smiles in return, shaking his head with a chuckle, but not acknowledging the comments, before walking down the line to chat with Mikasa.

I glance briefly at Marco, who’s still sitting on his erg, stretching his arms out gently as he watches the exchange with a mild curiosity on his face. Bert stands and stretches out his back, pecking Reiner on the cheek briefly before moving to stand by Marco’s erg. He’s chatting quietly with him, but I can vaguely here the words “stroke rate” and “split” getting tossed around, so I decide to move closer, sitting back down on my erg as I listen in.

“What kind of split you looking at for a 2k, Marco?”

“Eh, I like to hold around a 1:50, but I’m usually around a 1:45 later in the season, once my muscles get better accustomed to the sprints. What stroke rate do you wanna do for this one? 29-30 okay?”

“Yeah, anywhere from a 28-30 should be fine. But yeah, 1:50, pretty good split. That’s about what we like to hold. Naturally, the girls’ splits are a bit slower, but don’t underestimate them, these chicks are serious beasts on the ergs.”

Marco laughs, and I can’t help but notice the small jolt I feel rush up my spine at the sound of his laugh. I shake my head. That didn’t happen. My body is just still warm and jolting from the warm up. It’s about the workout, Kirschtein, not Marco.

“I don’t doubt it,” Marco starts, leaning over to glance down the line at the girls, “even the little one, um, Krista? Even she looks like she could whoop my ass if she felt like it.”

“I could!” Krista shouts out from down the line, and even I can’t help but grin a little at that, but I wipe it off my face quickly. 

“How about you, Jean?” Reiner says. His voice sounds sincere, but I can tell there’s a teasing tone to it, a tone that tells me I’m being quiet, a tone that tells me I should talk more to the new guy.

“About 1:50 here too.” I say curtly, not bothering to look up at Marco as I sit back down on my erg and strap my feet in again. I can see Reiner shake his head as he stands up beside me.

“Don’t mind Grumposaurus Rex, here.” The blond says again, clearly directing his comment to Marco about me. I roll my eyes and try not to scoff as I adjust myself on the seat. “He can be a little fussy, but he’s got a heart of gold, don’t you, sugar-lump?”

Reiner pinches my cheek and I slap him away hard, muttering a solemn “fuck off” as I see Levi making his way back to the front.

Reiner steps away with a smile, moving swiftly back to his erg, and I straighten up my back.

Show time.

**::**

This piece won’t fucking end. Every stroke is fucking agony, and I just can’t breathe. My only solace is the sounds of my teammates suffering alongside me. No matter what pain I suffer, I know that they’re going through it too, and I know that we’re in it till the end. I’ve made it 1500 meters so far, and Marco has kept us at solid 29 stroke rate, pace never once wavering, and I have time to be impressed about that later. Right now, I just have to make it 500 meters.

Every stroke I take sets my lungs on fire. This room is too cramped, too noisy, the sounds of the whooshing ergs interspersed with labored, heavy breathing and the shouts of coxswains as they move around the room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Bertholdt and Reiner to my left, Marco on my right, keeping up our pace. I’m doing my best to keep my chin up and breathe, and I can see that Marco is having the same troubles. But his form hasn’t suffered once: his back always straight, body swing always perfect in ratio, legs steady, arms fast and dramatic, power so consistent it makes me sick.

400 meters now. The home fucking stretch. Less than 40 strokes left, I just have to  _make it through them_ , I just have to push through to the finish line.

My split has held strong at a 1:50, and every now and then, I spare a glance over at Marco’s screen. I can’t help the small amount of bitterness that creeps its way into my burning chest as I see his average split is currently a 1:48. With a shake of determination in my head, I push myself off harder from the catch, exerting as much power as I possibly can through my quads, watching my split go down, down, down. I’ve got a 1:47, and I’m holding it as best I can.

The next time I glance over at Marco, he’s apparently turned to glance at me as well. He’s breathing so heavily, huffing pants as sweat pours down his face, but the little freak fucking  _smiles_  at me, and I watch as he pushes off just an iota harder on our next stroke and his split drops to a 1:46. Fucking bastard. With a grunt, I watch the meters count down.

250 now. Push it, Jean, this is it. Don’t let that Freckled Son of a Bitch beat you. Another angry grunt and I’ve got my split down to 1:45.

He and I are dead even as our meters count down, less than 100 now. I glance over at him and he’s still got that stupid grin on his face as he stares forward at his monitor and watches the meters tick by.

We finish almost simultaneously, Bert and Reiner finishing at roughly the same time as us. The ladies are a bit behind us, but not by much, Ymir and Mikasa finishing next, followed closely by Krista, and Sasha finishing only a few seconds behind the blonde. I can’t help but wonder if her split lived up to her fall split. If she managed to hold it, I’m pretty impressed.

Most of the rest of the room are still rowing, but odds are they are close to being done. I can’t thank enough gods or goddesses that the piece is over with. I fumble to undo my foot straps, shakily withdrawing my feet from the holders and easing myself down to the floor on trembling arms and legs. Marco is directly to my right now, but he hasn’t moved from his erg. He’s sat up straight, arms lifted, hands resting on his head as he breathes deeply and shakily through his nose and exhales hard through his mouth.

I can already feel the bile rising in my throat, but I swallow hard. This is the first piece that fucker has seen me do and I just held my own right beside him, I will  _not_  go and vomit. I have  _some_  dignity, thanks. My arms, hands, legs, everything are shaking, each muscle on fire as I flop a leg out to stretch it as best I can.

Please let me die. I can’t even stretch properly yet. I decide to give up and flop onto my back, looking up at Marco’s back, the bastard still sitting on his erg and steadying his breathing. This dude is so fucking  _zen_  that it almost pisses me off. The sheer composure and poise in everything he seems to do slithers underneath my skin, and I would roll my eyes and scoff at him if I weren’t still struggling to regain at least one good lungful of breath.

As I lie on the floor, letting my eyes slip closed for a minute, I can hear the steady whooshing of the ergs begin to slowly die down and quiet, until the room is filled with nothing but groans and heavy breathing.

You know, though, for all my bitching and moaning about 2ks, there really is nothing comparable to feeling when you’re done. Your muscles burn and ache, you want to expel every little thing from your stomach, and your chest and throat burn from not enough air coursing through them fast enough, but after the fan of the erg has slowed, after the meters have counted down, after the muscles begin to cool, there’s a euphoria. It’s a warmth that spreads across me, like a drug injected into my veins as my head gets a little lighter, as I breathe a little more deeply with each inhale I take, each stretch of my legs, and each wiggle of my toes.

It’s kind of like sex, and coming from a man who enjoys his orgasms, please know that I don’t say that lightly. 

The endorphins continue to rush and course through my exhausted body and I open my bleary eyes slowly. My gaze surprisingly meets Marco’s, who’s still sitting atop his erg, but now has his head craned back to glance down at me. There’s a moment there between us, I think, a moment when he smiles and I can’t help the small smirk that begins to grace my lips in return. But the quick rush of my endorphins drops dramatically as I realize what I’m doing and I break the stare, wipe the smile from my face, and urge myself to my feet. I don’t look at him again as I walk away, headed towards the water fountain to rehydrate, despite the fact that I have a mostly full water bottle sitting beside my erg. On shaking legs, I step over my collapsed boatmates, my fallen comrades, along the way.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Levi is already making the rounds, talking with coxswains, and examining erg scores. For the most part, he looks satisfied. Or at least, as satisfied as Levi can look. But there are a couple hitches in his expression as he reviews the scores. I can’t help the smirk that creeps its way onto my face when I hear him speak out to the room, saying the name of the one friend I wanted to hear.

“Connie, Sasha, Marlo. Tomorrow, the track.”

It’s brief and curt, but we all know what that means. I shake my head and laugh; victory always tastes oh, so good. I catch Connie’s eye and waggle my eyebrows at him, and he scowls at first, before suddenly smiling a manic, sarcastic smile and flipping me a dramatic middle finger before turning back to talk to Sasha. I do kinda feel bad for that novice, Marlo, though. Poor kid. Novice never have any idea what kind of hell they're walking into the first day of spring training. They know now though. 

Levi whistles again, shrill and piercing to my head that’s still coming down from the pain and the endorphin rush. I move slowly back to my erg and stand beside it, noting that Marco is still sat atop his own. That smile hasn’t left his face at all, still grinning ear to ear like a madman. What the hell is  _wrong_  with this kid? I shake my head and turn my attention towards Levi.

“Alright, scum, settle. I suppose that was a good enough effort for today. Tomorrow, we’ll be on the ergs again, so I expect you here on time and ready to work. Dismissed.”

The room begins to bustle, bodies moving, grabbing bags and socks and shoes and clothes. Over the chatter, I hear Armin’s voice carry out, calling for a hands in. We typically always did a hands in with our boat after each practice, but it was kind of a team tradition that the first day of a season and the last day of a season, we do a team-wide hands in. It’s crowded, but it works. We all crowd by Armin, hands shoving it to get into the pile, and somehow, Marco is suddenly wedged right beside me, his chest pressing gently against my back as he thrusts his hand into the fray.

I try to ignore the warmth emanating from him, that slightly tacky feeling of sweat drying and clinging to his shirt that is touching my bare back. The bare skin of his arm is brushing against my bicep as we’re shoved closer together, the last few members of the team forcing their way in. I grunt as he stumbles just a little bit more firmly against me. This isn’t fair.  

I have to force myself to swallow the lump in my throat.

It’s only Armin calling out to the group that snaps me back to the moment at hand.

“Titans on three! One, two, three,”

“ **TITANS!** ” we boom out, voices resonating in the large erg room.

I don’t think I’ve pulled out of a huddle this fast in a long time, desperately dragging my body out of the cluster to get myself away from the proximity of Marco’s skin and warmth. I grab my bag and don’t even bother to head to the locker room to change – I figure I can just change when I get back to the dorms. As I rush down the stairs from the erg room, I can hear Marco calling out.

“Jean, wait up!”

But I don’t. I keep my pace, maybe even speed it up a bit, crossing the fields and heading towards the solace of my room.

I don’t bother to look back to see if he’s followed me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! Got some conflict brewing, mostly because Jean just can't help being a brat. 
> 
> I'm thinking about doing some art for a couple of the upcoming chapters. Gotta see what I can muster up though. Woo. 
> 
> The next chapter should be up very soon! 
> 
> Thanks again, everyone. <3 I appreciate your views and your comments, you wonderful creatures. 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


	6. Fresh Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his best attempts, Jean can't seem to get enough space between himself and Marco. And as much as doesn't want to admit it, their first day back on the water is surprisingly good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rigger** : The metal bracket on the boat that locks the oars into place.  
>  **Launch Boat** : The motorized boat the coach drives in order to stay with the rowers and coach.  
>  **The Slide** : The "recovery" portion of the stroke. This is when the stroke is finished, and the rower makes his way back up to the catch for another stroke. This portion of the stroke needs to be steady and controlled.  
>  **Feather** : This is when the blade of the oar is parallel to the water. The blade should be feathered during the recovery of the stroke.  
>  **Square** : This is when the blade of the oar is perpendicular to the water. The blade should be squared just prior to dropping the oar in the water and should stay squared throughout the stroke so as to propel the boat through the water.  
>  **Catching Early** : Dropping your oar in the water earlier than the other rowers in the boat.

I had beaten my suitemates back to the dorms easily after rushing out that first day. And upon returning to find that I had holed myself up in my room, they had been kind enough not to bother me, though I did notice a ten dollar bill slip under my door as Connie muttered “bastard” softly from the other side.

Tuesday goes well enough; I’m quickly getting back into the groove of my classes. And honestly, I can’t fully express how happy I am to not see a freckled face in either of my Tuesday classes. The reprieve is so very welcomed, but I can’t help but wonder how I plan to make it through the remainder of the semester if all I can think about is how happy I am to not have to interact with Marco.

As I head out of Organic Chem and migrate towards Painting, my thoughts can’t help but mull Marco and practice over some more. I’m a little irritated that I know we’ll be on the ergs again this afternoon, given how beautiful outside it is again today. But at the same time, I’m almost a little grateful. One more day on the ergs means one more day where I don’t have the new kid in front of me in a boat.

Settling down in the painting studio and waiting for my classmates to sweep in, I think about Marco. I can’t even say for sure what’s wrong about him. Sure, he hadn’t been what I was expecting, and sure, I had without a doubt underestimated his skills… And sure, he would undoubtedly be a good addition to the boat, but I just can’t seem to get on board with the idea of him. Is it because he isn’t Thomas? Am I just upset that he’s new? Am I pissed about the change? Would I be harsh and bristled with any new guy, regardless of who he was or where he’d come from? Am I really so adverse to change that the mere thought of it shifts me almost instantaneously from Jekyll to Hyde?

Apparently so…

Or am I just mad because I know that I’ve always been a sucker for a boy with brown eyes?

The fact that I honestly don’t know the answer frustrates me, and it only makes me resent him more.

I want to tell myself that I can’t put my finger on Marco or why I react to him the way I do. But the truth is, I think I do know. But the truth is something I don’t want to acknowledge right now. I was fine when we had first met, because he was kind and nice to look at… But the realization that he was the new guy sliding his way into our boat is what made my spine tingle, made my walls go up, and put my body immediately on the defensive.

It’s something about him, something that tells me that I should keep my distance. It’s that same feeling you get when you want to pick at the blisters that have formed on your hands from the oars, but you know that if you do, your hands will suffer tenfold from the open wounds you’ve created. It’s the same feeling that tells you not to touch that bright and beautiful flower with the long, spindly barbs.

It’s the same feeling that tells you that beautiful things come at steep prices.

And Marco is beautiful in a way I can’t describe. Marco is beautiful in the same way that _he_ always was. Marco is beautiful in ways I can’t bring myself to talk about anymore.

My painting class is over before I know it and I hardly absorbed anything other than the fact that our first section would be working figures. I gather my things and trudge out of the studio, my classmates following behind me. I’m so stuck inside my own head, my thoughts so wrapped up in crew and Marco and how I really just need to get a nap, that I almost don’t see him.

But as I lift my gaze from the floor, I see him: just across the hall from me, there he is, in all his freckled glory, exiting the photography lab with an older woman, whom I can only assume is his professor. He is engaged in her conversation and smiling and nodding as she gestures to him, before turning to lock the lab behind them. I stop dead in my tracks just outside the painting studio, classmates suddenly bumping into my back with a small chorus of “hey”s and “watch it”s. With a quick glance down the hall to my left, I’m just about to turn and dart down it, make my way out the rear entrance, but it’s too late.

He’s already seen me and is raising his hand to wave at me, holding one finger up to signal he wishes me to wait a second. Goddamnit. Marco turns his attention back towards his professor, passing a couple more words to her, and I wonder if I still have time to escape.

Nope, I’ve waited too long. Marco’s already heading my way, threading through bodies, and bounding across the hall towards me with a soft, warm grin on his face.

“Well hey,” He starts, “Didn’t figure I’d catch you in these parts. Where you coming from?”

I gesture half-heartedly with my head back towards the studio.

“Just painting.”

I start to walk, hoping he might just leave it at that. Surely he has somewhere else he needs to be.

Nope, he’s walking with me now. Faaaaantastic.

“Didn’t figure you’d be the artistic type.”

I don’t look up at him, shrugging instead.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t assume things.”

It’s meant to sound harsh… Sarcastic and snarky, but the damn kid just laughs genially.

“Yeah, suppose you’re right. Well, you’ll have to let me see some of your work sometime.”

“Uhhh, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind. I’m sure you’ll make some great stuff, man. Wish I could paint… But the best I can do with art is photography. Anyway, where you heading to?”

“Nowhere. Just the dorms.” I say curtly to him, pointedly not acknowledging his mention of my art or his penchant for photography. What do I care about that anyway? Nothing.

“Same here, done for the day, thank god. Just gunna chill for a bit till practice.”

“Mmm.”

We’re steadily approaching my building and I’m doing my best to sound as disinterested as possible, but he doesn’t ever seem to take the hint…

“Crew was pretty brutal yesterday though… Never had a couch give a 2k the first day back before.”

“Ah, that’s just Levi… If it isn’t a 2k, it’s a 5k, or ten 500 meter pieces. He just wants to make sure we did our workouts over break.”

“Kind of a hardass, huh?”

“Suppose, yeah.”

He doesn’t reply to that, except with a slight nod, letting a quiet fall between us softly. My dorm is just up ahead, and I can’t seem to reach it fast enough. I just need _something_ to put some space between Marco and myself. He’s so fucking eager, so damn chipper, so chatty and so ready to be my friend. Hell, maybe he thinks we’re already friends. I glance over at him in the small quiet that has nestled into the space between us. He meets my gaze in return – bright and smiling, vibrant and keen. I snap my head away and trudge onward.

He’s too fucking happy, too damn overzealous, I tell myself.

He’s too fucking gorgeous.

Ugh, _no_ . He’s _annoying_ , and that’s it, I tell myself.

As we approach the door to my dorm, I slide my fob key out of my pocket. He still hasn’t separated from me. Where the hell was he heading? Shouldn’t he have somewhere else to be? Surely he has something better to do than follow me around.

“Hey, listen,” Marco starts as the two of us stand outside the dormitory door. He shoots his thumb back to point at the building behind him, the building just adjacent to my own dorm. “I’m just over in Maria if you wanna hang out or something.”

I pause.

There’s a moment there when I want to. A moment when I want to shrug my shoulders and say sure, why the hell not? There’s a moment when I _want_ to chill with him, watch bad movies with him, play cards, drink, who cares. There’s a moment when I want to sit with him in his dorm room and ask about his life, watch him smile as he tells me all about his past. But I don’t.

I shake my head no, partially in response to Marco, and partially to remind myself of where we stand. I have to remind myself that that bright, beautiful smile of his still has sharp, pristine teeth behind it. Beautiful flowers with barbs on their stems. And beautiful things rarely come without a price, and I should know better.

“Um. Nah, thanks.” Is what I opt to say, pointedly not looking up at him. “I’m probably just gunna sleep until crew today.”

He smiles again, and I will not look at it.

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’m room 320. See you at practice, Jean!”

I nod and offer a half-hearted wave as he retreats into Maria Hall, before I sigh and enter my own dorm.

Stay away, Kirschstein. This is a lesson I know all too well. Sometimes it’s a lesson I wish I didn’t know already.

Just keep your distance, and everything will be fine.

**::**

It’s just Levi and Hanji with us today, and I’m somewhat relieved to not see Director Smith making another appearance. Maybe today won’t be _too_ terrible. I know that’s too much to hope for, but hey, let a man dream, ya know? 

Levi informs us all curtly that today we’ll be doing two sets of seven 2 minute pieces with 1 minute rest between each.

I should starting calling him Coach Dream Crusher. Oh, who am I kidding, he’d probably take it as a compliment.

Kill me. Someone, please.

I honestly can’t decide if I’d rather go back and do another 2k or just grit my teeth and get through the timed pieces. Remember how I said that meter pieces were great (and terrible) because the harder you pull, the faster they’re finished? Well, that’s the exact reason that timed pieces can be a rower’s worst enemy.

Timed pieces show no mercy. They aren’t like the brutal sprints of the 2k’s, they aren’t like the long, endurance races of the fall season. No, timed pieces are different beasts altogether. Because you’re expected to keep your split low just like in a meter piece, but unlike a meter piece, a timed piece is only over when the clock stops. And the clock doesn’t tick faster just because you’re pulling harder.

Levi sends us all to the track for a warm up mile first and foremost. As I jog it out, Marco clings to my side. He doesn’t speak, which relieves me more than I’d care to admit. But he won’t stray from my pace. If I slow down, he slows down, if I speed up, so does he; clinging to my side like a dutiful puppy. I can’t stand it.

We finish the warm up wordlessly, and as we filter off the track and back towards the boathouse, I can’t help but notice the way Levi firmly stops Sasha, Connie, and Marlo as they move to follow the group back to the boathouse. He says something that I can’t make out, but the next time I glance back, the three of them are back on the track running.

We hop on our ergs, still lined up from the day before, and unhappily plug the numbers in. These are sprints, once again, expected to be rowed at roughly race pace, only a little slower. Marco looks excited. Seriously, I know I’ve probably said this at least a dozen times already, but what is wrong with this kid? No matter how much you love rowing, you’ve gotta be a little tweaked upstairs to be excited about timed sprints.

But I don’t question his mania. In fact, I don’t say a word to him as we start up the work out. 

We make it through four of the first seven pieces before I finally can’t take Marco smiling at me anymore. I clear my throat and turn my attention to him.

“Hey,” I say, still breathing heavily and unevenly. Marco turns his head towards me, smile still plastered on his face like the inhuman freak he is.

“Yeah?”

“You’re bending your knees too early…” I tell him, a hint of irritation to my tone, a little bit of an indignant sarcasm directed towards him.

It’s a complete lie though: he _isn’t_ bending his knees too early. His technique is as flawless and consistent as it had been yesterday and I know that. But I also know what I’m doing. My comment is false and hostile and I don’t try to hide it. I want to rile him, I want to get under his skin a little, see what makes him tick. I want to see him bristle for once and see what happens. I want to see if he’s capable of being angry.

…But he isn’t. He grins wider and shoots me a quick, accepting nod.

“Good to know, I’ll keep an eye on it. Thanks, Jean!”

He always has to say my name, doesn’t he? I raise an eyebrow at him, my lip curling a little in confusion.

“…No problem…”

“Let me know if I do it on the next piece, yeah?”

“….Sure…”

I turn my head forward and stare at my monitor. My brow is furrowed so hard that I wonder if I’m causing permanent wrinkles, but I can’t relax it.

What is _wrong_ with this kid? No one is this good-natured, no one is this kind-hearted and warm, no one is this fuckin' _genuine_.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Bertholdt to my left looking at me with a smirk on his face. I snap my gaze to him.

“What?” I ask, albeit a tad aggressively.

Bertholdt just shrugs, shaking his head with a laugh and a soft hum.

“Mmm, nothin’, nothin’.”

Smug bastard.

I shake my head with a huff, and shift my attention back towards my screen. Rest is almost up, so I edge forward and grab the handle, watching as Marco does the same, almost in perfect sync with me. The two of us sit at the ready next to each other and I’m pointedly trying not to look at him, as the rest of my boatmates ease their way up to the catch to sit ready.

But as the seconds count down until we have to start again, I just can’t resist shooting a quick glance at the freckled boy to my right. There’s a smile on his face, as there always is, but he’s looking right at me now, eyes suddenly locking with mine. The look on his face is soft and gentle, and it feels like it’s just for me… I want to look away, I do… And my gaze falters for a moment, but I can’t bring myself to turn my head away. His grin fades for a moment, and I watch as he bites his lower lip, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel my back stiffen a bit, and I lift my chin, desperate to look away. But I can’t.

He keeps his teeth against his lower lip before making a slight nod towards his monitor, signaling silently to me that’s it’s time for us to push off once again.

I don’t even need to look back at my screen before I push off the catch hard in time with Marco.

**::**

I spend most of Wednesday wondering about Neuro. It’s only the second class, so I definitely can’t skip it, but the thought of having to deal with Marco for the third day in a row seriously makes me consider pretending to be sick.

But I can’t, I know I can’t. Neurobiology is a rough enough course without having to pile on the excuses about missed days to Pixis. I just can’t justify letting myself slack this early in the semester just because of _him_. I’m just going to have to suck it up.

I make a point to leave my dorm a little late, delaying my departure as much as I can simply to avoid running into Marco on the walk over to Stohess. It sounds dramatic, I’m sure, but it works. My walk is pleasantly void of any freckled individuals by my side, and I’m okay with that. I know I’ll have to face him in class, unless by some blessing, he isn’t there, but I can cross that bridge when I get there… in the next five minutes…

It’s too much to hope that he would be out. As I meander into the lecture hall, the majority of my classmates are already settled in their seats. Pixis is getting out his laptop and notes, and Marco is sat down in the fourth row, his bag in the seat to his left, the seat to his right totally empty, likely reserved for me. I’m hoping I can slip in unnoticed: he’d have to turn around to see me. But it’s too much to hope for; he always seems to know when I’m around.

Marco turns his head back to the entrance of the lecture hall, spotting me on the stairs that lead down the rows. He beams a bright smile at the sight of me, and I feel a hard knot twist up in my stomach. He raises his head and beckons me down to sit with him, but I simply look down at the floor, pretending to not have even noticed him, and move into the row I’m standing by, situating myself several rows behind him.

I might be pretending not to see him, but there’s no way I can avoid the hurt, dejected look that hits his face. It’s the fastest I’ve seen his smile fade since I met him, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t actually feel a little bad. Because he’s nice… He really is. He seems like a good guy. And it isn’t his fault that I’ve got issues that I desperately don’t want to deal with. But it’s what I have to do… And I’m sorry, Marco, I truly am.

I’m half expecting him to get up and move to sit with me in my row, but he doesn’t. Marco stares at me for a moment longer, his expression puzzled and crestfallen, and it’s all I can do to pretend that he isn’t there, that the look on his face isn’t because of me. He only stares for a moment longer, before turning his head slowly around to face the front, where Pixis has already loaded up the powerpoint for today’s lecture.

I do my best to pay attention during Pixis’s lesson, I really do. I make a few scribbled notes in my notebook, but today’s lecture is honestly just a brief overview of shit we all already learned in this course’s prerequisites. Yes, I know what an action potential is, yes I know allllll about the sodium potassium pump, and yes I can tell you all about what happens to the cell during depolarization and hyperpolarization of the neuron during an action potential. I already know what an EPSP and an IPSP is and if anyone in this class doesn’t know that by now, I don’t think they’re gunna make it very far with Pixis. But hey, this is par for the course; I can only assume that we’ll be getting into new material by Friday.

Mostly though, instead of taking notes on crap I already know, I doodle. I draw little neurons, with their dendrites and synapses on the margins of my paper. I draw faceless heads and small figures, before eventually I catch myself focusing on the back on Marco’s head. Without even thinking, I begin to shape out his form. Dark, shaded hair, broad shoulders, reclined gently against his chair. I look down at the doodle, interspersed with branching dendrites that wrap around his figure and I sigh.

The lecture ends a few minutes early and Pixis is saying we’ve got a reading assigned for Friday and to check online for the chapter, before telling us to go ahead and get on out. With a groan, I snap my notebook shut and shove it into my bag. I’m one of the first ones out of my seat and heading up the stairs of the lecture hall and out the door. But despite my slight head start, I can already hear Marco rushing to get out of his seat. I dare a glance back and see him sliding out of his row.

“Jean, yo, wait up!” He mumbles as he patters up the stairs and around a couple classmates to catch up to me.

I don’t wait, but he catches me all the same.

“Hey, you wanna walk to practice together?” He asks, as if I hadn’t totally snubbed and ignored him just an hour ago. I sigh and shake my head.

“Um, no, thanks, I uh.. I’ve gotta run to my dorm for a change of clothes.”

 _Liar_ , I think to myself.

“Well… I can walk with you… We’ve got a little time to kill anyway.”

“No, thanks, it’s fine.” I try again.

“Ah, I don’t min-”

I don’t let him even finish that thought.

“I said it’s fine.” I snap at him firmly, before striding ahead of him quickly. “I’ll see you at the boathouse.” I mutter softly as I walk away, not even turning my head back to look at him. Just before I’m out of earshot, I hear him mumble.

“Okay… Sure.”

**::**

I linger in my dorm much longer than I should, until finally I build up the courage to venture out again and head to the boathouse. I have to jog to make it there, and even then, I’m a minute late. I’m about to head up the stairs to the erg room, but I notice my boatmates standing around in the bay on the first level by the boats. I stride into the bay to join them, and note that Marco isn’t with them. With a quick glance to the board, I see the magnets with our names on them lined up beneath the magnet that reads “The Pink Panther”.

Levi has always been well organized. The board arrangement is his pride and joy, honestly. My freshman year, he got tired of having to hand write all the line ups, and suddenly the next day, he came back with a magnetic board and almost 40 printed labels stuck to rectangular magnets, each one with the name of a rower, their preferred side of the boat (S for Starboard, P for Port, C for Coxswain, and X for Scull), as well as magnets for each of the boats in the boathouse. The Pink Panther, The Garrison, The Scout, and The Vision. Today, just our boat was set aside and lined up neatly on the board.

 **The Pink Panther**  
Armin (C)  
Marco (P)  
Jean ( S/P)  
Bertholdt (S/P)  
Reiner (S)  
Ymir (P)  
Krista (S)  
Sasha (P)  
Mikasa (S/P)

Krista, Ymir, Bertholdt, and Sasha each grab two oars off the racks before striding past me to carry them down to the dock. I move to stand by Reiner’s side and bump his shoulder.

“We going out today?”

“That’s what Levi said.” Reiner’s grinning ear to ear. I can tell he’s been yearning for the water just as much as I have.

“Nice.”

Bertholdt makes his way back up from the dock first, wrapping an arm around Reiner’s shoulder and leaning against him.

“Where’s Marco?” I ask tentatively.

“Changing still, I think.”

Speak of the devil and he will come, the minute after Reiner says it, Marco rounds the corner with Levi by his side. Levi is saying something about how he’s looking forward to seeing what Marco can do on the water. I swallow the lump that’s forming in my throat as he approaches.

I’m expecting… well, I don’t know what I’m expecting… but it certainly isn’t the way he smiles at me.

“Hey!” he says enthusiastically, moving to stand beside me in front of the board. “Excited to get out on the water?”

It’s like earlier never even happened, like it exists in some alternate dimension, separate from this one. I can only nod at him and give him a half-hearted grin in return before he moves to chat with Ymir.

I stare up at the board again, pointedly letting my eyes linger on his magnet. All the other magnets are typed out: printed off with a label maker to neatly state our names. But Marco’s isn’t like that. Marco’s is new, handwritten, printed finely in Levi’s pristine handwriting on a piece of masking tape and taped over what I can only assume used to be Thomas’s magnet.

I try not to start as Levi suddenly appears by my side. The rest of my boatmates are chatting happily with Armin as he grabs one of the coxboxes from the storage room. Levi doesn’t say anything to me for a moment, staring up at the board alongside me. I think it’s best I just stay quiet.

Finally, he speaks.

“Having doubts, Kirschstein?”

“N-no, sir.”

“You are, though.”

I sigh.

“Just concerned is all, sir.”

“Why? Do you not trust my decisions as a coach; do you not trust Marco’s skills?”

“It’s not that.”

“Listen to me, Kirschstein,” he says under his breath, courteous enough that this conversation stays between the two of us. “This kid is talented, and trust me when I say that you two are likely going to be a better pair than you and Thomas ever were. That is, if you can get your ass on board.”

I can’t help the way my fists clench a little, but I don’t contradict him. Instead, I nod.

“Yes, sir.” I mutter briefly.

“Join your boat, Jean, we’re heading out.”

I nod at him again and turn to head towards my boatmates, who have gathered by the boat racks. But as I move to step away, Levi’s fist is suddenly clenched in the sleeve of my tshirt.

“Oh, and Kirschstein?”  He says, turning me slightly back around to look at him. “Question my decisions again and you’ll be doing pushups till your shoulders dislocate.”

“…Y-yes, sir…”

“Cox it out, Armin!” Levi shouts next as I jog my way over to the boat, standing behind Marco as we listen for Armin to instruct us out of the boathouse.

**::**

The boat on our shoulders, we walk steadily down the ramp towards the dock, Armin leading the way steadily. I’m happy that for the moment at least, I’m on the opposite side as Marco, the blessed boat in between us and blocking our view of each other.

“Way-nuff!” Armin calls out as we slow our pace and stop. “Toes to the edge.”

Dutifully, we inch our way over to the edge of the dock and listen for the call.

“Back over heads and up! And roll it down, and down. Slow and easy!”

Ever so gently, we plop the boat in the water, quickly slipping our shoes off as Armin holds onto the stern by the cox seat. Toeing off my tennis shoes, Marco comes to stand beside me and places his shoes beside my own. He grins at me and grabs up a port oar and heads back to the boat, popping the oar into the rigger and locking it down. We like to launch with starboard side to the water and port side to the land, so his oar rests atop the metal of the dock. In the meantime, I grab up a starboard oar and rest my knee down on my seat as I crouch and seamlessly lean out and slap my oar into my own rigger and tighten it.

With a quick jiggle, I make sure it’s secured and keep my oar pulled in, the handle resting on the dock, waiting for my teammates to finish loading their oars. Marco comes to stand beside me and bumps my shoulder gently. I try not to bristle. He’s too close, way too fucking close. But I swallow the hard lump in my throat and do my best not to fling myself away from him.

“Excited about hitting the water?”

“Yeah.”

It’s not much of a response but it’s the best I can muster. Truth is, I _am_ happy about going out on the water. But at the same time, I’m dreading it. I’m dreading having to follow Marco, having to stare at his back and match his every move as if it were nothing, as if I’m not actively trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Marco doesn’t respond, opting instead to simply clap me on the shoulder in his excitement as Armin calls our attention again.

“Starboards, oars out, please.”

Obediently, I grab my oar and put it out towards the water, resting the blade flat atop the water alongside Reiner, Krista, and Mikasa.

“Starboards, one foot in, and down.”

In perfect unison, Reiner, Krist, Mikasa, and I step into the boat and ease down onto our seats.

“Ports, one foot in, and down.”

Marco glides himself down onto his seat in front of me, adjusting his shorts briefly before strapping his feet in and turning his head back to grin at me.

What’s a guy gotta do? I ignore him, I’m rude to him, and yet he’s still smiling, still looking at me in that same way, that same, genuine, warm way, like he still wants to believe we’re friends.

I don’t look up at him, pointedly focusing on my foot straps. Even though I’ve already tightened them, I unvelcro them and do them again. I keep a hand gripped on my oar as Armin situates himself down into the coxswain’s seat, fixating the microphone on his head and testing out the coxbox.

“Everyone hear me okay?”

A small chorus of “yeah”s chimes up to him and he nods, settling his hands on the steering cables.

“All hands on the dock, ready to shove… and shove.”

We push off smoothly, the boat gently moving away from the dock.

“Ports, draw in your oars, push off the dock, please.”

Marco and Bertholdt around me bring their oars in, pressing the blades hard against the edge of the dock to push the boat further out into the water. As they re-extend their oars and get situated again, I see Levi nodding at us from the dock before heading to the launch boat and starting up its engine.

“Stern pair, at the catch, sit ready to row.”

My hands on my oar, I move up to the catch behind Marco as the two of us bury our blades in the water, ready for the stroke.

“And row.”

We push off steadily, not exerting much power, but moving easily in time with each other. The boat moves gently through the water, edging us further away from the dock. Marco and I row in silence, feeling the weight of the other six rowers sitting stagnant behind us.

“In two, Bert and Reiner add in. One, two.”

Without a hitch, the pair behind me falls into our pace and the boat begins to glide a bit more quickly, coursing with a graceful ease across the surface of the water. I hate to admit it, but Marco is as easy to follow in the boat as he is on the erg. His technique is crisp and clean, smooth in all the right places, and so full of control that it’s almost annoying. His blade glides feathered at the perfect height above the water, his arms so steady that it looks like he’s rolling his oar handle across a flat table top. Watching him drop his oar into the water is like poetry. He squares his blade up at such an even pace, never too early, never too late, it’s fully square and ready to drop at just the right moment. It enters the water quietly each time, before pulling through the water with an even, powerful grace that I can only hope to match.

Why does this guy have to be good?

“In two, Ymir and Krista add in. One, two.”

Now we’ve got all but our bow pair moving, relying solely on Sasha and Mikasa for stability as we move. We won’t row all eight yet, we never do this early into practices. Armin likes to cycle through the pairs first anyway, giving us all ample time to warm up.

I count and time our strokes silently as we move. Marco is like a goddamn metronome, his movements ticking with such a precise and seamless beat that I’m a little taken aback. He’s steadier than Thomas was… as much as I hate to admit it.

“In two, bow pair in, stern pair out. One, two.”

On the count, Marco and I drop out as Mikasa and Sasha jump in. I make sure to scoot forward all the way on my slide in order to avoid taking an oar in the back. The one downside of having Bertholdt behind me is his sheer height. He’s got a reach on him that constantly puts my tender back at risk of bruises. I learned my lesson after the first few times it happened I got socked in the spine.

Unfortunately, scooting up means putting me in closer proximity to Marco. The price I pay for not getting pummeled by the colossus behind me.

I’m not even surprised when he turns back to chat with me.

“Feels good, yeah? Y’all really work nicely together.”

“Rowing together for two years, I’d be surprised if we didn’t.”

“The stroke rates feel okay to you?”

I just nod, but Armin hops in, pulling the microphone away from his mouth.

“Feels great here, steady 22.”

The comment draws Marco’s attention away from me, for which I’m extremely grateful. Levi suddenly appears beside our boat in the launch boat, slowing the engine down to pace beside us. I hear Armin’s voice crackle through the microphone once more.

“In two, Reiner and Bert out, stern pair in. One, two.”

We continue this way for the remainder of our warm up, as Levi watches on silently. He’s always disturbingly quiet during warm ups. He watches us like a hawk, analyzing each and every movement, planning where he needs to attack by the time we start the actual workout.

Eventually, Armin calls for all eight of us to row, and I would be lying if I said that I’m not a little nervous for it. When we finally start moving, all eight of us rowing together, it’s a little shaky. It always is the first day back on the water. Without a pair not rowing, without an extra set of oars resting on the water to balance us, we’re left with only our technique and even strokes to make sure we don’t tilt or waffle from side to side as we go.

After a few strokes, we begin to stabilize again, the boat finally finding its center of balance, oar handles balanced, timing accurate, although I can’t help but notice the slight strain in my hamstrings. It’s the same strain you get when the rowers behind you are moving just _slightly_ faster up the slide that you are, and it can cause a bit of an ache.

I’m about to nod at Armin, to signal the inconsistency, but it seems he’s already caught it. He wouldn’t be the head coxswain on the team if he weren’t extremely astute to our motions.

“Bow six, steady out your strokes. You’re rushing stern pair a bit. Just a hair slower up that slide.”

He waits a couple strokes as the rest of the boat lengthen out and adjust their strokes, falling in better pace with Marco and myself.

“Much better, thank you. You guys are at a solid 23 stroke rate right now, keep that steady state. Sasha, watch your oar, you’re catching a fraction early, steady it out.”

The boat finally seems to be in sync, and I can’t help but note how focused Marco has been. Since we’ve been rowing, he hasn’t craned his head left or right, hasn’t muttered a word, hasn’t turned to look back at me. His gaze has been trained ahead, his technique constant and faultless as we row.

I don’t want to say it, but it feels good. It feels _really_ freaking good.

Maybe things won’t be so bad after all…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all your wonderful comments. 
> 
> The next chapter should be up probably tomorrow. Got a few last minute edits I wanna take care of, then I'll have it posted. :) We're going to be seeing things heat up, with a tad more confrontation, so stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone! 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). (And would love some more SNK mutuals.)


	7. Backsplash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean does his best to keep Marco at a distance, but Marco has had just about enough of it. And Reiner is more observant than Jean might like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter 6 Terms**  
>  **Race Start** : The beginning strokes of a Spring Season race. They sequence is typically a series of five short strokes (done at three quarter and half length strokes), followed ten full strokes at full pressure, and a fast stroke rate, and then finished with ten strokes to settle the stroke rate down while still maintaining pressure. Race starts are done to get the boat up and moving since spring races start from a dead stop.

As much as I hate to say it, the rest of practice on Wednesday actually goes quite well. It’s a good welcome-back-to-the-water kind of day, full of drills and technique work, rather than focusing on our sheer brute strength in a sprint. We focus on timing, following each other, learning Marco’s stroke, learning how to work together as a unit again, and Levi even throws in a couple practice race starts for fun. I don’t want to admit it, but Marco fits in well with us. And I suppose I’m happy… to a point, at least. I’m happy that he rows well, and I’m happy that he’s a gifted stroke seat, and I’m happy that the rest of the boat seems to be quite on board with him.

I’m even happy(ish) that, as a pair, he and I seem to click. It’s more than I had expected, that’s for sure.

I don’t speak much to him for the remainder of practice, only occasionally acknowledging the things he says to me, but never engaging him. Never initiating. It’s the best I can do to stay civil, to not unload upon him a slew of uncalled for aggression. Because no matter how I want to slice it, my attitude at this point is a “me-issue”.

I ditch out as soon as I can, after our boat has done our hands-in, and after I watch Marco move to chat with Levi a bit. I take my leave and disappear before anyone can really question me, striding off across the soccer fields back towards the main campus and towards my dorm. I hole myself up my room, pointedly ignoring Connie, Reiner, and Bertholdt’s attempts to get me to come out, join them for dinner, or simply hang out. I know eventually I’ll have to answer for the way I’ve been acting: they aren’t stupid and they already know something’s up with me, but I’ll be happy for however long I can avoid the confrontation.

**::**

I’m actually kind of impressed with my ability to dodge Marco on Thursday – when my painting class lets out, I make a point to linger in the studio, creating the illusion of simply being slow to gather up my supplies from the day. I wait until the hallway outside has gotten quiet, until the only sounds are from a few students filtering in early for their upcoming classes. With a quick glance out into the hall, I don’t make any note of Marco and breathe a soft sigh of relief.

This is kind of pathetic, I know. But I can’t just stand around with him every day, making small talk, pretending that my default mood is simply “asshole”. (I mean… it is… but that’s beside the point.)

I walk down the hall and begin to descend the stairs, but as I do, I see Marco at the bottom, sliding out the double doors and into the fresh air. The fact that he’s still even in the building tells me he probably tried waiting for me, only to find that I didn’t show my face. I sigh, and I purposefully slow my descent, making sure there’s a decent bit of extra space between us before I have to exit as well.

I’m relieved when I don’t see him outside the doors as I begin the short walk back to my room. But up ahead, on the sidewalk, I can see him in the distance. He’s walking slowly, his feet dragging a bit, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s a little disappointed simply because he hadn’t seen me after class. I’m sure that’s not the reason. Maybe he’s tired. Because I’m at least 90% positive his thoughts don’t revolve around me… not the way my thoughts seem to revolve around him. I steady out my pace, allowing even more distance to come between us as we walk along the sidewalk – too much space and not enough in between us – towards our adjacent dorms. I only pick up my pace as I see him fob into Maria and disappear past its threshold.

Approaching my own dorm, I can’t help the way I pause before I fob in. With a short glance up towards the third floor of Maria, I can’t help but think about him. I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about me. Does he wonder why I’ve been cold to him? Does he choose simply to ignore it? Or has he truly not noticed? Perhaps he’s still under the impression that we’re friends, or at the very least, friendly teammates. I sigh softly before buzzing into my dorm and heading towards my suite.

**::**

I make a point to ignore him again on Friday, making sure once again to not sit in his row. Today, he glances back at me as I enter, but doesn’t bother beckoning me over, simply watching as I slide into the same row I had chosen on Wednesday. The expression on his face is empty and hard to read and I can only pretend to look away and begin wonder if perhaps it’s starting to sink in for him.

We aren’t friends.

_Even if I want to be._

Because it’s been hard… keeping track of my emotions. I’ve waffled so much this past week. The resentment towards this man has always been there, but the motivations behind it have wavered and wobbled. Shifting and reshaping themselves until finally I fear my feelings of frustration and resentment towards this freckled fucker have taken a shape that I haven’t seen in a long while.

I don’t resent him as a rower. I don’t resent him as a member of my boat. And that’s what I’m afraid of.

As a rower, Marco is incredible, and I will never deny it. He’s fastidious, determined, powerful, and graceful, moving through each and every stroke with a sense of lithe, flowing purpose. As rowers, we seem to work well together. Wednesday and Thursday’s practices had demonstrated that much to be  obvious. And despite my bitter heart wanting to pretend that this is about him as a rower, I just can’t.

I resent him, I do. But not as a member of my team.

It’s pure resentment I feel when I begin to notice the little crinkles that form around his eyes when he smiles – always pointing that glimmering grin my direction. It’s resentment I feel when the sharp yet delicate line of his jaw sends a jolt down my spine when he turns around in the boat to look at me. It’s resentment I feel when I begin to notice all the small, minute ways his back muscles flex and move beneath his dark, dusted skin.

It’s resentment and umbrage I feel when the mere sound of his voice makes me feel warm and twisted up inside. And it’s with a heavy sigh, sitting several rows behind him in Neuro just so I don’t have to sit beside him, that I know the nature of my anger has changed.

If I were a better man, I would let it go. Suck it up, put aside my issues, put aside my damages, and accept him for what he is: a kind soul in a hard world with a smile that could give sight to the blind. But I’m not a better man. And I can’t just let it go. I can’t help it that I sometimes wish he might just disappear and leave me be in my solitude. Because Marco is beautiful, just like _he_ was beautiful. Marco is beautiful with paint-spattered skin, and sharp, alabaster teeth that could rend me terribly. He is beautiful, and beautiful things never come without a price.

Perhaps I’ve gotten my wish for solitude, though. As class dismisses, Marco doesn’t spare me another glance. He stands, grabs his bag and exits without a second look in my direction, and I can’t help but wonder if this is what I wanted.

**::**

Just like every other day this week, Marco pointedly doesn’t acknowledge my attitude at practice. He smiles at me and says hello, but I can’t help but notice how he speaks less to me today than he has any other day before. And I can’t figure out if I’m okay with that or not. And if I’m not okay with it, I know it’s my own damn fault.

But for now, I think I can be okay with it. I will row behind him, I will be the best damn 7-seat he’s ever rowed with, but we aren’t friends and I think it’s finally a reality that has sunk in with him. Maybe he’s just done trying.

Practice goes well, despite everything. The other boats have finally joined us out on the water, Levi taking my boat out as well as the quad, and Hanji taking the two novice 8’s out with the second launch boat. It’s a practice in which we’re expected to train our power as well as our technique, preparing our muscles not only for the fine-tuned techniques required but for the high levels of exertion required to endure a spring sprint. And it goes surprisingly well, even if Marco and I haven’t said a word to each other. There’s even a part of me that’s a little disappointed he has only smiled at me once today. But once again, I have to remind myself that this is what I want. Or, at the very least, it’s what I need.

We finish practice without a hitch. Every drill we do is almost perfectly timed, every piece is steady, consistent, and powerful in ways that I hadn’t expected, especially not for only our third day out on the water together. Marco hardly speaks at all, pointedly only really conversing with Armin, and only about technique and how the boat feels. I can’t help but feel a little bad that I have to be seated behind him. Because even if he wanted to speak to the others, my face is the one he’d have to circumvent if he wanted to turn around and address them. Oh well. Maybe there will come a point when Marco can turn around and see through me like glass. Pretend I don’t exist.

I wonder if the others have noticed. I’m sure that Armin at the very least has, but he is nothing if not tactful, and makes a point not to acknowledge it. So long as the boat is rowing well, so long as we are working hard and in synch, he won’t bring up the tension I’m sure he senses in his stern pair. Reiner, always the observant one, has definitely noticed. I haven’t been able to ignore his side-glances at me, his curious, questioning stares whenever he catches my gaze. I know he’s seen the way I’ve avoided Marco, the way I’ve been short with him, the way I pointedly won’t look at him whenever he stands near me.

It’s as much as I can hope that the blond will be merciful and not bring it up at all.

**::**

After practice, I decide to hang around the boathouse, looking for a small bit of solitude but not wishing to return to the dorms and risk possibly having to face my roommates. I linger around the boathouse in the erg room, sitting atop a rowing machine until the remainder of my teammates have left. With a small huff, I stand, gather up my bag and move out and down the stairs toward the locker rooms on the ground floor. I sigh as I slide in, noting that it is blessedly empty.

I need a little alone time. I need a little time away from my boat-mates, my team, my coaches… away from Marco. Away from the memory of that happy smile of his, away from the way he’s been so kind to me, away from the way he so clearly had wanted to be my friend at first, away from the reason why I just wouldn’t let him. Away from the fact that Marco may not even be trying anymore.

Slowly, I change my clothes, peeling my sweat-stained shirt from my body and slipping a fresh shirt on and a fresh pair of shorts over my spandex. There’s a steadiness in my movements, a slow and heavy motion as I shove my clothes back into my duffel bag. I can’t help the exasperated exhale that expels itself from my chest as I turn and thunk my body back against the lockers.

I lean my head back against the metal lockers and close my eyes. I’ve been an asshole and I know it, snubbing Marco whenever possible despite how utterly fucking _kind_ he has always been to me. And it’s because of that one selfish feeling that has built its way up in my chest these last few days. I’ve waffled between being bitter about Thomas’s departure, anxious about Marco’s performance, annoyed when he proved to be better than I’d ever expected, and frustrated and bitter when his smile had consistently managed to make me burn and flush from the inside out.

He deserves the spot as stroke seat in our boat and I know it. Like I said, I can’t deny his skill. His technique is impeccable, his power is thorough and unrelenting, and his strokes are steady and controlled, leading our boat in a way that’s rhythmic like fucking _music_. But I can’t separate myself enough. I just can’t get away from him.

Because despite my best resistance, despite my constant attempts to remind myself that he and I aren’t friends, shouldn’t be friends, and that no, he isn’t as attractive as I think he is, there’s a part of me that still desperately wants to be close to him. Marco is beautiful, just like _he_ always was. And if I’ve learned anything from _him,_ I’ve learned I have to keep away. Even if I don’t want to. 

I want to tell myself I’m cold and unfeeling, and I want to tell myself that this separation will be easy. Because, after all, Marco is just another rower. No different than Thomas, or Bert, or Krista, or even fuckin' Jaeger. But even I can’t convince myself of that. There’s a part of me that stares at Marco’s back during practice and creates constellations out of the freckles that speckle his skin. There’s a part of me that watches each muscle and tendon move and flex, sinew pulsing in exact, precise time with our strokes. There’s a part of me that tries to time my breaths with his as our legs draw us up the slide, steady, ever so steady to the catch, preparing for yet another push of a stroke to send us sailing through the water. There’s a part of me that wonders if the blood coursing through his veins pulses to the same beat as his metronome-steady stroke rate.

There’s a part of me that wants to put my mouth against his neck just so I can taste his pulse. And I can’t deny the fact that part of me just wants to kiss him to find out if he kisses with the same finesse, delicacy, precision, and passion that laces every part of his rowing technique.

But I can’t do that and I know it.

I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear the door of the locker room squeak open steadily. I can barely turn myself around fast enough, making sure I’m facing the lockers, facing away from the person who has just interrupted my miniature moment of panicked introspection.

Whoever it is, they’re standing behind me silently. And it only takes one small huff of a sigh from the stranger before I know exactly who it is. I swallow thickly, pointedly not looking up, not turning around, not even acknowledging his presence.

But he won’t let me ignore him. He clears his throat, demands my attention.

“You know, Jean…” Marco starts slowly, carefully, as if I might dart at any moment. I might. “That first day I met you… I kind of thought you wanted to be my friend…”

_I did… I do…_

_But I can’t, Marco…_

I let out a slow, shaky exhale and lean my forehead lightly against the metal locker in front of me. With a short bite of my lip, I force out a reply, shoving the words I desperately don’t want to say past my lips.

“Well, you shouldn’t assume things.”

That seems to get to him, that seems to be what sets him off, because suddenly there’s a voice coming from Marco’s lips like I’ve never heard before. It’s sterner than I’ve ever heard him sound. It isn’t loud, and it isn’t shouting, but it is hard, no-nonsense, all force and exasperated frustration with me. I've pushed him far enough, it would seem.

“What is your goddamn problem with me?!" Marco demands, "I have done _nothing_ but try to be your friend since I met you. I have tried _really_ damn hard to just get you to warm up to me!”

I can’t take this anymore. I shake my head hard and spin around in a flurry of motion, my voice raising to a shout of its own accord.

“Well, who the hell asked you to try hard?! Because I sure as shit didn’t!”

Marco looks taken aback and rightfully so. He’s staring at me now with wide eyes and a look of surprise and indignation on his face that I can’t even begin to acknowledge. He drops his gaze curtly and sighs out a breath that bleeds with frustration, as if I were a child who simply didn’t understand. And maybe I don’t. He takes a small, slow step forward towards me, and I move to retreat, but my back is met only with the cold, unrelenting metal of the lockers.

“Jean…” He starts. He always has to say my name. Always direct and respectful, no matter the situation. “Jean, we’re a team. And I _feel_ like a member of the team with everyone except for _you_ . Everyone else seems to like me and I like them… I feel like we’re friends now… But with you… with you, I’m always just _persona non grata_ , and I honestly don’t know what to do… And the funniest part is, despite the fact that you can be a raging dickhead, I _still like you_ … for some fuckin’ reason, I still like you.”

He pauses for a moment, as if collecting himself, and I can’t bring myself to speak, I can’t find the words enough to spit them off my tongue. With a short sigh, he continues.

“Jean… you and I are a _pair_ , whether you like it or not, and I need you on my side… I cannot support and lead our boat without you.”

I don’t say anything; there’s nothing I can say. What should I even tell him? I want to be on his side, I truly do. I want to be his 7-seat, but there is a selfish tug inside my chest that is simply _angry_ at him. Angry that he’s so goddamn perfect, angry that his smile and his voice have seeped their way beneath my skin after just a couple of days, so fucking angry that I can’t seem to go an hour without thinking about him. So angry at myself that I’ve let myself get this way, that I’m letting this happen to me all over again.

I’m so angry because deep down, I'm pretty sure that I’m already too far gone for this freckled bastard to come back.

“I just don’t know what it is…” He starts up again, his voice a little strained and desperate this time. “Is it because I’m not Thomas? Do you think I’m not good enough? Not strong enough? Because I feel that I have _more_ than proven my worth to this goddamn team, and yet you still have such _contempt_ for me! What is it? What did I do, Jean? Why do you hate me so much?”

I clench my eyes shut; I can’t take this. With a frustrated huff, I push myself off the lockers and move to stride past him, to stomp out of the locker room and leave him standing there in the silence, all his questions unanswered and hanging in the air. But with a quick step to his left, he blocks my escape, his body side-stepping with mine to cut off my exit.

“Get out of my way.” I instruct him flatly, gripping the handles of my duffel bag tightly in my fist. But he shakes his head.

“No, Jean. Fucking _talk_ to me. What did I do? Why don’t you like me?”

I grimace hard at his words, feeling my nose crinkle up, my tongue stinging with the words that are fluttering to the tip of it, begging to slip their way past my teeth. I’m not even thinking when I shout in his face.

“I do, okay?!” I heave out a breath as I stare at him, his face suddenly confused and bewildered by my outburst. I swallow hard and let the anger seep out. “I _do_ like you! I like you too goddamn much. So do me a favor, and just stay away from me. Now get the _fuck_ out of my way.”

My last sentence is hard and jagged, my voice on edge and cracking with frustration, anger, and desperation to simply be free of this moment. I don’t even hesitate before I shove past him roughly, my shoulder slamming against his as I force my way past him. I hear him grunt at the brunt of the impact but I don’t stop.

“Jean.” He says firmly as I head towards the door, but I won’t stop, won’t respond. I’m halfway out the door when I hear him call again. “Jean!”

I can’t bring myself to look back at him.

**::**

 I spend the remainder of Friday hiding out in my dorm room, even when Bertholdt tries to get me to come out and eat with them, I decline, saying I’m going to study. It’s as much as I can do to avoid Reiner’s gaze. Because something tells me he knows. It’s hard and pointed at me, as if he knows exactly what had happened in the locker room. But my excuses about studying seem to stave him off, at least for a bit. It isn’t a lie, either. I do have a neuro quiz coming up on Monday, but I figure I can study for it later. Instead, I spend the remainder of the day doing everything I can to forget about what happened between me and Marco in the locker room. 

I try reading, I try browsing the internet, I try drawing, but nothing helps. Every book I try isn’t interesting enough, tumblr is either boring or full of angsty teenagers writing about unrequited love, and that _definitely_ isn’t helping my situation. Even my drawings offer no relief because every face I want to draw is littered with freckles until finally, I toss my sketch book across the room and glower at it, as if my expression will somehow make it feel bad for allowing me to draw such things.

I sigh.

Maybe studying would be best. I glance at my watch quickly; it’s almost midnight. I doubt I’ll be sleeping any time soon, so I may as well. There’s a moment when I wonder why my suitemates haven’t returned yet. I figure Connie is at Sasha’s, which is where he usually spends his weekends, but god only knows where Reiner and Bertholdt are.

With a sigh, I dig my neuro text out of my bag and plop it on my desk, idly flipping open to the chapter we’d been covering. I’m tired, but figure this could be the icing on the cake to ease me into the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

I yawn slowly, glancing down at the text in front of me blearily. I make it through a few pages, my highlighter making notes of a few things, but eventually, it becomes laborious. With each word, my mind is threatening to shut down and my eyes are threatening to close. At this point, I’m pretty sure my hand is just highlighting text completely separate from what my brain is registering, but I have to at least convince myself that I’m “studying”. Dot Pixis quizzes are nothing to scoff at.

Resting my chin on my hand, I let my other hand continue to mindlessly highlight, noticing that I’m starting to haphazardly highlight off into the blank margins and at all sorts of odd, askew angles. I sigh softly and set my pen down on the book, glancing at my watch before burying my face in my hands. It’s almost 2:00 am, maybe I’ve earned myself some rest. With another stretch, I hear the door to our suite open, and I can hear Reiner and Bertholdt making their way inside. The two of them are muttering to each other under their breath, and I can only hope to freaking god that those hushed voices don’t mean they’re about to get it on. As happy as I am for them that they have a stable and healthy sex life, it isn’t something I really need to be privy to, especially not at 2 in the morning.

I hear the door to their bedroom open and shut and their whispers die down, and I’m mentally crossing my fingers that they just go to bed. But before I can even really think about it anymore, the door to my bedroom flings open abruptly. I almost fall out of my chair at the sheer force at which it opens, and Reiner barrels into my room without hesitation.

“Jesus Christ, Reiner!” I say with a jump as he plows in, noticeably without his boyfriend in tow.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but there’s a look on his face that tells me he is _not_ drunk and that he is not planning on leaving my room any time soon. It’s a look I haven’t quite seen before. It’s stern and accusatory. It isn’t… _angry_ , per se. But it’s a look that says he means business. It’s a look that tells me something serious is about to go down. It reminds me of the kind of look a parent might give their child when they misbehaved or got a bad grade in school.

Without hesitation, the blond steps forward and stands by my desk, staring down at me in my chair.

“What did you do?” He asks calmly but sternly.

“Excuse me?”

“I said: What did you do?”

“I… um… Okay, I’ll be frank here, I don’t really know what we’re talking about…”

Without missing a beat, Reiner slips his cell phone out of the pocket of his hoodie and holds it out to me, displaying a text message screen. I move my face closer to it, but he doesn’t actually hold it up long enough for me to even register who he was texting, let alone what the messages said. I’m about to protest, but he’s already shoved the phone back in his pocket before I even have the chance.

“Do you mind explaining to me why Marco just texted me saying that he’s thinking about quitting the team?” Reiner demands firmly.

I pause.

“…Quitting?”

“Yeah. _Quitting_. So tell me: What. Did. You. Do?”

“Me?! What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” I demand.

“Because _you’re_ the only one on the team that treats Marco like a damn leper. So what did you do, what did you say to him??”

“Fucking nothing!” I say defensively, raising my arms up slightly in a shallow attempt to convey my innocence. 

“Bull. Shit.” Reiner punctuates. “Ever since Marco started here, you have been such an _asshole_ to him, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. The rest of us like him. The kid’s a fuckin’ angel, he practically _glows_ for god’s sake!”

“So fuckin’ what?”

“So fuckin’ what’s your problem?” He mocks back to me. “Look, Jean. I know you generally have a foul disposition about you, but you’ve really gone above and beyond with Marco. The kid has been nothing but nice to you and it seems to me like you just snub him at every turn. I don’t fucking get it, dude, what on earth is your beef with this kid?”

I can’t help the way I turn away and hang my head. I want to tell Reiner there is no beef, that I don’t treat Marco any differently than I treat anyone else on the team, but I know that’s not true. I know I’ve been cruel to him, I know I’ve ignored him, I know I’ve snubbed him. What’s my issue with him, Reiner wants to know.

“Nothing…” I whisper halfheartedly, not even able to lift my gaze to meet Reiner’s under the weight of the lie.

“Seriously, why don’t you like him?” Reiner tries again, calling my bullshit at every turn.

“I do…” I mumble again, keeping my eyes trained on the corner of my desk.

“Well you got a damn funny way of showing it, Kirschstein.”

I don’t respond, I can’t even bring myself to try to respond to it, so the I do the only thing I can think to do: I keep my eyes down, focusing now on the text book in front of me. The words are just little blobs beneath my gaze, my eyes are too tired, my head too full. But it doesn’t matter, I can, at the very least, pretend that this text book is serving as some sort of distraction, some sort of diversion to let me escape from this conversation. But Reiner isn’t buying it: he never does. He’s always been able to see through me like fucking glass. He catches my pointed refusal to respond almost instantly.

“…Jean?” He asks again, his voice taciturn and soft this time. He knows something’s up and it’s all I can do not to respond to him.

I can’t speak. The finger of my left hand is idly folding the top left corner of the page of my text book. I hear Reiner sigh softly. The next thing Reiner says makes my stomach drop like a stone. It’s not the words, but rather the inflection. It’s a knowing tone, a tone that tells me he understands something that I may not even fully grasp. It’s a tone of realization and sympathy, verging on pity.

“…Oh, Jean…” Reiner breathes.

I say nothing.

“You like him…” He says next. “I mean… you _like_ him…”

“No…” I mumble weakly in retort, not even able to look up from my book, not even able to stand behind my own lie.

“Damn, Jean…” 

I hear Reiner rustle around and I dare to take a quick glance up at him and watch as he turns away from me for a moment. One hand lifts and runs through his hair, the other comes to rest on his hip as he juts it out to the side and sighs heavily. I know what he’s thinking. I’m just hoping that he won’t bring it up, I’m just hoping that he won’t say the words. But the way he sighs a second time tells me that it’s already on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re afraid this will be another Daniel, aren’t you?”

I wince at the mere mention of his name. I swallow thickly, still not looking up at Reiner.

“I don’t want to talk about Daniel…”

“Is that why you’ve been so harsh to Marco?”

I don’t know what to say… There aren’t words enough to answer Reiner’s questions. The blond exhales slowly again.

“Jean… Look, man… I don’t. I don’t know Marco well enough yet, yeah? I don’t know what he likes. Chicks, dicks, both, anything, nothing… But that… that doesn’t matter right now, okay?”

Reiner strides closer to my chair and turns me to face him, squatting down in front of me so we’re on the same level. I make a point to avoid his eyes. I’ve never been good with eye-contact, especially from someone who is obviously concerned about me, someone who is about to lecture me and tell me what needs to be done. I love Reiner, I do, but sometimes I wish I could trade Mama Braun in for a normal roommate.

“Jean, listen to me. Right now, you’ve gotta put your issues aside, okay? I can already tell you… Marco is _not_ the same kind of person Daniel was. But your feelings on the matter have to be put on the back burner for the time being. We can deal with them later. But you _cannot_ let Marco quit, Jean. Not even just for the sake of our boat, but for _Marco’s_ own sake.”

I shrug halfheartedly, still not looking at him. He places one hand on my leg, the other on my shoulder, ushering me to at least spare him a glance.

“That boy loves rowing more than he loves breathing. He loves rowing probably as much as you do. And he’s a good guy. You cannot let him throw away something he loves that much just because you rank a 10 out of 10 on the worst possible ways to handle your problems.”

“Hey!” I start to protest, but Reiner doesn’t let my indignation get much further.

“Listen to me, Jean, you _can’t_ let him quit.”

“Oh, and what exactly do you expect me to do about it?”

Reiner scoffs and stands up, pointing to the door dramatically.

“Oh, you’re gunna get some jeans on, you’re gunna march your skinny little ass over to Marco’s dorm, and you’re going to apologize and promise not to be such a dickmuch in the future.”

“I don’t…” I start again, but Reiner cuts me off again.

“Listen, you don’t have to be his friend. If that’s what you need to do, then fine. But you can’t keep treating him like you have been. He isn’t Daniel, Jean.”

He places a soft hand on my shoulder and ushers me to stand.

“He won’t be awake, man, it’s past 2 am…” I try.

“He’s awake, trust me.” Reiner says surely, double checking his phone, before turning his attention back to me. “Go talk to him, Jean. He’s a good guy. And things will feel better once you do… Then we can deal with your feelings, okay? I promise I’ll be here for you no matter what. But talk to him.”

I crane my head over to look at him and shoot him a small smile and a nod.

"Okay..." I whisper. 

Sometimes I wish I could trade Mama Braun in for a normal roommate, but most of the time, I’m so grateful he’s around.

I dig some jeans out of my closet as Reiner heads out of my room. I slide them on steadily and try my best to steel myself. I slide a jacket on and grab my phone and my keys. With a small sigh, I run a hand through my hair and prepare to head out.

 _Into battle..._ I think to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised y'all some conflict in this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you all again for your comments, you're all wonderful. I'm so happy people are reading it and enjoying it! Chapter 8 should be up quite soon! 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com), and welcome anyone! 
> 
> Thanks everyone!


	8. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's going to do his best to make things better-ish. He isn't really prepared for how he's supposed to handle his feelings afterwards though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't really any rowing terms in this chapter that I need to define. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Standing in my room, I can’t help but delay my departure a bit. I adjust my jeans a few times, make sure my jacket is zipped up just right. I’m checking things that I would never normally think to check simply because they might let me delay my confrontation with Marco just a little bit longer. But finally, when I’ve double, triple, and quadruple checked that I’ve got my phone and my keys, I realize that I’ve just got to get this over with. With one more deep breath, I make my way slowly out of my room and through the living room where Reiner and Bertholdt are perched on the couch. With a quick nod in their direction, I head to leave, before Reiner suddenly stands and follows me.

“Hoooold up there, cowboy.” The blond demands.

With a quirk of my head, I turn to face him, and before I can even register what he’s doing, he snatches my keys from my pocket and walks away, fiddling with the carabiner swiftly.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping after him.

He turns and without hesitation tosses my carabiner back to me, holding up my _only_ copy of our room key in his hands tauntingly.

“Hey!” I say, stepping forward to grab the key back as he holds it up higher and then tosses it over to Bertholdt on the couch. Bert catches with ease before nodding at me and stuffing the key into his pocket.

“Give it back.” I say firmly, but Reiner and Bertholdt both just shake their heads. I hate their goddamn synchronicity.

“Nuh uh, kiddo, now get the hell out.”

Reiner doesn’t wait. He ushers me back towards the door, opens it and shoves me out, slamming it shut behind me. I clench my eyes when I hear the tumblers of the locks turn. Glancing at the carabiner in my hand, now one key short, all I have are my car keys and the fob to buzz into the buildings. Goddamnit.

I know he doesn’t plan on letting me back in until I’ve proven I’ve gone and spoken to Marco. With a heavy sigh, I pull the hood of my jacket up over my head and slowly trudge my way towards the exit of Sina. It’s a short walk in between the two dormitories and I’m at the entrance of Maria before I’m really even ready. Clenching my teeth, I fob in and pass through the common room, doing my best to ignore the couple of random people who are perched up there. But I can’t help the way I pause as I approach the stairwell.

I know Marco’s room is up on the third floor, I vaguely remember him telling me the room number, but for the life of me, I can’t actually recall it. Fuck. I sigh and shrug, already turning away from the stairs, ready to head back outside and back towards my own dorm.

I tried my best, I really did, sorry Reiner. I’ll just have to go another day, oh shucks, truly a shame. 

I head back through the common room with quick steps, but as I approach the exit, my pocket buzzes and chirps suddenly. My hand already on the door, I slip my phone from my pocket and stare at the new text illuminating my screen.

 **From: Mama Braun  
** _Room 320, piss-ant._

Ugh. With quick fingers, I type a hurried reply.

 **To: Mama Braun  
** _I know, I remember! Already up the stairs._

I get a response almost immediately. 

 **From: Mama Braun  
** _Bullshit. Get your ass up there._

How does he _always_ know? I sigh, albeit a bit dramatically, earning myself a few stares from the few people in the common room. I flush and look down. Damnit, don’t you people have somewhere to be, something to do? Sleeping maybe? Anything other than staring at me uncomfortably? I clear my throat and turn quickly on my heels to head back towards the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, if only to free myself from the stranger’s awkward, curious stares.

**::**

I’m not really sure how long I stand outside Marco’s door. But it’s been a while… It’s been long enough that I’m sure if anyone were to notice me, they’d probably think that I’m some creep who broke into the dorms. Numerous times, I lift my hand to knock, only to drop it before my knuckles have the chance to touch the wood. I can’t seem to swallow the hard, persistent lump that has formed in my throat.

Finally, and only after I decide that if I stand here any longer, someone is going to call campus safety and have me removed, I grit my teeth, bite the bullet, and rap my knuckles against the heavy door. The response is almost instantaneous, Marco’s voice calling out, muffled, from beyond the door.

“It’s open!”

With an understandable amount of trepidation in every one of my movements, I hesitantly open the door. The first thing I notice is that Marco’s alone. Glancing around the room, I quickly note the absence of a second bed. Damn, man, how the hell did he manage to swing getting a single? Must be nice…

Marco is sprawled out on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, books and pens and papers all strewn around him atop his comforter. Best I can guess from the size of that textbook is that he too is attempting to study for Pixis’s quiz.

His glasses are perched on the end of his nose, his hair mussed up and tousled, as if he’s been threading his fingers through it constantly. I force myself to swallow. He looks… he looks good… too good.

His expression is soft and curious as he focuses on his notes; and it stays that way until he lifts his gaze and his eyes land on me, standing halfway in the doorway with a nervous grimace on my face. Marco’s face hardens almost immediately, taking on a firmness that is so out of place on him that it’s startling. Steadily, I step fully into the room, trying my best to steel myself. I close the door behind me as gently as I can, the only sound the soft click as it shuts. Marco still hasn’t said anything, but his gaze hasn’t left me: firm and fixated and waiting.

“Hey…” I mumble softly in the quiet.

“Hello.” Marco replies curtly. His tone isn’t harsh, but there’s a distance in his voice, a distinct, somewhat stony tone that tells me he’s walled himself off from me. I don’t like it.

“I’m kinda surprised to see you here, Jean…” He starts. “Thought you might be busy terrorizing some _other_ poor soul who was nice to you…”

I wince at the words, the sarcasm and bitterness not wasted on me. I nod softly in acceptance.

“I deserve that.”

“Yeah, you do.” He agrees flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

There’s a moment when all I can do is stand there, eyes darting between him, his room, and the floor. I know the words I want to say to him, but they’re dry and difficult, as if they might stick firmly to my tongue if I even attempt to speak them. So I say nothing and stand in the uncomfortable silence. Softly, I hear Marco sigh and I bring my gaze back up to him as he gestures towards his open books and notes.

“Did you need something, Jean? Cause I really need to stud-”

I can’t help but cut him off, the words I need to say finally releasing their grip on my tongue, fumbling out of my mouth gracelessly.

“Marco, you can’t quit.”

That seems to gain his attention, eyes darting up to lock ever so briefly with my own. Marco exhales very slowly and steadily, his breath controlled as he leans up off the headboard and crosses his legs beneath him. He slips off his glasses and sets them calmly atop his open textbook.

“Been talking to Reiner then, huh?”

I can only nod wordlessly. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing gently at the indentations that have formed from his glasses.

“Guess I had to figure he’d tell you.” He mumbles softly, more to himself than to me.

I honestly have no idea what to say, I’ve only really prepared a few sentences, and I’ve never been great at ad-libbing. I figure I’ll just let him say his piece before I even try. With another sigh, he speaks.

“Look, Jean…” He starts slowly, making sure to look me in the eye this time.

This is how he is… direct and respectful, no matter the circumstances. Always has to say my name, always courteous enough to offer his full and direct attention, even to someone like me.

“Someone else… can stroke the mixed 8 for you guys, okay? Eren, or... or someone else, whoever it is, they’ll work out fine for you guys.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t care about that…” I mutter back to him, and when I think about it, it’s true… While I would hate to be stuck with Eren for the remainder of the year, at the end of the day, I’m honestly not sure if I could forgive myself if Marco quit just because of me.

“Oh?” He asks, his voice sounding genuinely surprised at my words.

“I’m not… I’m not here for the boat.”

He doesn’t respond this time, but he’s still looking at me, still offering me that direct and pointed attention.

“Marco, look, you… you love rowing, okay?”

He scoffs.

“I don’t really need _you_ to tell me what I love, thanks.” He snaps back at me, albeit a bit harshly. I wasn’t really expecting that… Best I can do is ignore the comment and persist with my spiel.

“You love rowing, okay? I know you do. Because you love it in all the same ways I do… It’s- it’s obvious. I can see it, everyone can see it… You get that same… stupid, manic happiness that I get from it.” I pause, breathing in a quick inhale. “You can’t quit.”

“And why not, exactly?” His voice is still a bit harsh, but I can’t help but note that it’s softened, even just a bit. It’s a minor difference, but it definitely isn’t as firm as it was a moment before, and I can almost feel those stony walls – the ones that I had helped erect around him – cracking just a little.

“Cause… cause you can’t give up something you love that much just because…” I pause, hesitating on the words, “just because some brat like me was being an asshole.”

The silence that spans between us after my last sentence is almost unbearable. His face is unreadable and I’m seriously wondering if he’s about to tell me to just get the hell out of his room. But suddenly, that hard, stony expression on his face cracks a bit, and he lowers his head to look away from me.

That’s when a hear it: a fucking _laugh_.

Breathy, and maybe a little exasperated, but it’s a laugh alright. He shakes his head steadily, eyes still down, hair falling loosely over his forehead. But he chuckles again and speaks.

“You really… can be _such_ an asshole…” He mumbles with another small, breathy giggle.

I can’t help the small smile that creeps its way onto my lips.

“I know… I’m sorry.” I pause. “I’m gunna try not to be though…”

He laughs again, looking up at me slowly.

“You can be such a dick, Jean…” my smile falters a little before he continues, “but… you can also be really kind when you wanna be.”

My grin returns in force and I shrug at him, daring to take a small step closer to his bed.

“Yeah well, don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

Marco laughs again at that, but it’s short, and there’s a quick silence that settles over us. He moves a couple books out of the way, wordlessly offering me a seat if I want it. I do my best not to think as I lower myself hesitantly onto the mattress, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Marco clears his throat.

“So… you gunna tell me _why_ you’ve been such a dick to me?”

I pause and look away, silently thankful for the good foot or so of space, interspersed with books and papers, that sits between us.

I shake my head.

“I don’t really… wanna go into it. But it wasn’t anything you did.”

“Oh god… Have we really already made into “It’s Not You, It’s Me” territory? It's only been two minutes.”

I chortle, the small giggle snorting a bit through my nose and I feel my face flush. I feel the bed shift a little as he leans forward over the books and slugs me lightly on the shoulder.

“Shut up...” I mumble with another breathy chuckle.

“But no… It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you don’t get to be a dick anymore.”

“Definitely not.”

Marco pauses for a moment and shrugs softly.

“You want to maybe… I dunno, start over?”

I laugh and nod, extending my hand out.

“Sure. I’m Jean. I am frequently a total asshat, but I am going to do my very best to not be as big of an asshat in the future.”

Marco grips my hand and gives it a brief squeeze and a shake. I make a point to ignore the warmth that radiates from him, ignore the calloused texture of his palm and fingers that matches my own rough hands.

“That was a long intro…” He jokes, giving my hand another shake. “I’m Marco.”

I smile lightly at his brief “introduction”, and I can’t help but notice that there’s a moment when I hesitant to let go of his hand. It’s only when I feel him slightly pull his hand back that I release it with haste.

“So…” he starts, picking his glasses up off his book and twirling them slightly between his fingers. “You wanna study with me?”

I glance at my cellphone. It’s almost 2:45 am. But I really don’t want to go yet and it isn’t like I have anywhere I need to be. It’s Friday, after all. So with a brief nod, I toe my shoes off and cross my legs underneath myself on his bed, turning to face him across the pile of papers and text between us.

“Ohhhhh, why not?”

He rearranges his notes a bit, clears off a bit of the book, and slides his glasses back on.

“Okay, so, mechanisms of taste…”

 

**::**

Marco and I don’t last very long studying. Considering how late I had originally arrived at his door, it’s actually rather remarkable that we’ve made it this far. But as 4 am rolls around, there comes a point when I’m really struggling to hold my head up. Legs crossed, one elbow resting on my thigh, I’m just barely cradling my head up as I mumble some nonsense about the central taste pathways.

“Um, uh… taste buds then… gustatory axons. And then brain stem, then thalamus, and then cere-” I yawn hard mid-sentence, “-bral cortex.” I mutter sleepily.

“Okay, so tell me about where they enter the brain stem…”

“Up your ass.”

“Wrong.”

“Up Pixis’s ass?”

“…more wrong…”

“Reiner’s ass?”

“Jean.” Marco says a bit sternly.

I feign innocence with a small shrug.

“I’ll give you a hint…" Marco tries again with me, "The gustatory…?”

"The gustatory nucleus, fine, fine, fine.”  I slur dismissively.

“Good, and where is the gustatory nucleus located in the brain stem?”

“Connie’s ass.”

“Why is “ass” the first thing you go to?”

“ _Fine_ , the medulla.”

“Right!”

“The medulla’s as-“

He cuts me off suddenly.

“Don’t say it!” He warns, with a point of my finger. When all I do is smile silently in return, and when he’s sure I’m going to stay quiet, he slowly lowers his arm down and turns his attention back to his notes, mumbling softly to himself, “A medulla doesn’t even _have_ an ass….”

I scoff at his comment. Sleepily, I rub my hands over my eyes and face, yawning hard again into my fingers.

“Man, I’m about to pass out on your bed… I think I gotta call it a night.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, he checks the time on his watch before groaning loudly and lounging back against the headboard. Like me, he rubs his hands over his face and eyes, before reclining further, eyes still closed, and draping his arms up over his head. I can’t help but watch the way his shirt rides up as he does so, but the minute his eyes start to flutter back open, I jerk my head away, staring pointedly at my shoes as if they were _easily_ the most interesting thing in this room. With a quick swing, I move my legs to hang off the bed, steadily slipping my shoes back on my feet. I stand with a brief stretch, and can’t help but note that Marco is still reclined back on his bed, shirt still riding up, revealing the faintest of a glimpse at his hip bones. They’re sharp against his dark olive skin, poking out above the waistband of his sweatpants. 

I need to look away.

I dart my head back to my shoes before fumbling around with my pockets to make sure that I have everything I need. My phone is there, as are my keys. But as I fondle my keys, I let out an exasperated sigh. I close my eyes, bitterly remembering quickly that Reiner still has my room key. Goddamnit. I hope those fuckers are awake. I hear Marco groan behind me and hear the bed creak as he slowly edges himself up and off the mattress to stand beside me. He must notice the annoyed look on my face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Reiner… he took my room key.”

“Hah, why?”

Oh shit. I hadn’t really thought that part through. I can’t just tell Marco that Reiner made me come talk to him and is currently holding my key hostage. I don’t want Marco thinking that my apology was merely the result of Reiner coercing me to say I’m sorry for the sake of the boat. 

“Because he’s a jerk…” Is what I settle on saying instead, hoping that Marco will just laugh and let it go.

Luckily, he does.

“Rude of him. Well, if he doesn’t answer, let me know. You can crash here or something.”

My throat immediately tightens. I’m not sure that I’m ready to just… share a room with Marco… even if I’m just on the floor. Please, god, let Reiner, Bert, or Connie be awake. Please.

“S-sure… Will do.” I stutter out.

I make my way to the door, and as I move out into the hall, Marco has suddenly appeared in the open door way. He places a gentle hand on my bicep and turns my attention back towards him.

 _God, those hands…_ I think to myself, my throat suddenly dry.

“Hey, Jean?” He whispers, careful not to speak too loudly and disturb the rest of the hall.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you… for… apologizing. And talking to me.”

He smiles a small smile my direction, which I return with ease.

“Sure…”

“You were right, you know?”

“About what?”

“I really didn’t want to quit…” He bites his lip and looks down with a shrug. “I love it too much…”

“I know you do.”

“And… I like rowing with you.” He breathes a small sigh before he continues, "Just wanted you to... like me, you know?" 

Briefly, he lifts his head and meets my gaze. He’s all bright brown eyes and errant locks of hair, dusted skin and alabaster teeth behind full lips. It’s all I can do not to turn around, put my hands against his shoulders, and shove him back into that room and kiss him like a man possessed.

But I can’t do that. With a clench of my fists, only hidden by the too-long sleeves of my jacket, I opt instead to smile at him.

“I do.” I mutter to him, pausing with a quick nod. “Goodnight, Marco.”

“Night, Jean.”

I’m halfway down the hall when I hear him call softly from behind me.

“Text me tomorrow?”

I turn my head back as I walk and nod.

“I will.”

**::**

I sleep… _laaaaate_ on Saturday. Later than I’ve slept in god only knows how long. Reiner had been passed the hell out by the time I got back to the dorms – that _dick_ – but after five minutes of banging on the door (because I sure as hell wasn’t going back to Marco’s room), it had been Connie who had finally come to the door and flung it open, with a look on his face that could turn you to stone. It was a scowl I won’t be forgetting soon, that’s for damn sure, but I was thankful for the fact that he hadn’t asked me a damn question upon arrival.

I wake up Saturday with my face half-buried in a drool-covered pillow. I’m a fucking _charmer_ , I know. With bleary eyes, I glance around. I could swear it’s got to be 8 am, and I fumble for my phone. It’s only when I see my screen read “1:00 pm”, along with 7 unread texts that I shoot out of bed.

Jesus Christ, I never sleep this late.

I’m a little disoriented as I get out of bed, standing in the middle of my room in boxers and a tattered t-shirt, looking around absently. It takes another minute before I realize that pants should probably be my first priority, followed shortly by food, and then possibly addressing the numerous texts waiting for me on my phone.

Pants successfully on, a granola bar in between my teeth, I stumble into the common room of our suite only to find it empty. With a sigh, I plop down on the couch and open my phone.

I can’t say I’m all that surprised when I see that 6 out of 7 are from Reiner. But there’s one from Marco and that alone makes me smile. Ignoring Reiner’s texts, I select Marco’s first, reading it with a slightly stupid anticipation in my chest. I shouldn’t be feeling like this, and I know it. It’s a text. Just a text. For all I know, it could say “croutons”, or something else entirely insignificant. But I can’t help the slight flutter of titillation I feel. 

_8:25 AM_  
 **From: New Guy**  
 _Rise and shine, sleeping beauty_

I bite my lip, trying like hell to remove that stupid fucking grin that seems to have plastered itself to my face. I shouldn’t be acting this way about a  stupid good morning text. But I just can't get rid of the slightly giddy, happy feeling in my chest. That is… until I see the time the text had been sent. One look at that, and my smile fades immediately.

8:25 AM?

And just like that, my brain clicks right back into “what in the hell is wrong with this guy?” mode. I shake my head, moving to type out a reply to him.

 **To: New Guy  
** _Who did you have to kill to be so cheery after so little sleep?_

His reply is almost immediate.

 **From: New Guy  
** _Only a couple of virgins, no biggie_

I roll my eyes and shake my head, but as I move to reply, I realize that I’m not really sure what all I should say. Should I ask if he wants to meet up? Should I ask what he did this morning? The fact that I’m not sure causes my stomach to knot up a little bit. I’m supposed to be keeping my distance. I had only said we would be friends. But the way my gut twists up a little, the way I’m unsure of what to say to him, it reminds me too much of Daniel.

It reminds me of those sweet little texts, those little jokes, my nervousness before I would reply to him. My desperate desire for him to like me.

And just like that, I feel like I’m a freshman again, staring the looming threat of attraction in the face, and I’m just not sure how to handle it this time around. Clearly, being an asshole hadn’t worked. And frankly, after hanging with Marco last night, I’m not sure that I could be an asshole to him again. He’s too kind, too earnest, too… too _good_.

Dread is still pooled in the pit of my stomach, panic that has me flustered, wondering what to say, how to say it, what things are okay, what things aren’t, what kind of ‘hanging out’ is appropriate and what might come off as too… flirtatious? I know I’m not super gifted in social situations, but goddamn, this is ridiculous. I feel like I’m 18 again, barely out of the closet and too afraid of giving it all away. Fingers hovering over the screen of my phone, I’m only relieved by the fact that Marco seems to have answered my dilemma for me. A new text appears and I can’t help the relief that washes over me.

 **From: New Guy  
** _I’m gunna grab a late lunch, wanna tag along?_

I pause, dragging my tongue over my lower lip steadily, before typing out my reply before I really have time to think about it.

 **To: New Guy  
** _Sure, meet at yours in 10?_

 **From: New Guy  
** _Aye aye, captain_

I grin at that, and stand up, stretching out slowly. It’s only when I catch a whiff of my underarms that I pull my phone out again, typing one last text to Marco.

 **To: New Guy  
** _Make it 20. I reek. Gotta shower._

 **From: New Guy  
** _Filthy beasty_

It’s only at that comment that I open up his contact, swiftly clicking to edit it, deleting **“New Guy”** and typing out without hesitation: **“Marco Bodt”**.

It isn’t much, but it’s a step.

**::**

Showered and dressed a little _less_ like a hobo, I’m leaving the dorm just as Connie returns. Books clutched in one arm and a slice of pizza occupying his other hand, I hold the door open for him. He shoots me a smile and a nod as he passes by me and I shut the door behind him. As I walk down the hallway, I hear the tumblers of the lock turning. 

Absently, I think to check my texts from Reiner. I scroll through them idly: most are simply telling me that he and Bert are going to breakfast and then the library, might go to the movies tonight, mocking me for staying out so late last night, blah blah blah. But the last one catches my eye.

 **From: Mama Braun  
** _I put your key on your desk, prince charming._

I stop in the middle of the hall, the memory of Reiner taking my room key flooding back to me, and I fumble my carabiner out of my pocket, and see only my car keys and my fob.

Oh, goddamnit, Reiner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! A little bit of resolution. Now Jean just has to figure out how the hell he's gunna deal with having to be friendly with Marco. 
> 
> I literally can't believe the hits and the kudos and comments on this story, I honestly can't thank you guys enough. I'm so happy you all are reading and enjoying this! Thank you all SO much. You're wonderful. 
> 
> I'll probably have the next chapter up within the next week. This week looks kind of busy for work, lot of surgeries scheduled, so hopefully I'll have some downtime. :) 
> 
> Thank you all again so much for reading!  
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and welcome anyone, my darlings.


	9. Let It Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> // _And I listen for the whisper_  
>  _Of your sweet insanity while I formulate_  
>  _Denials of your effect on me_
> 
>  _You're a stranger_  
>  _So what do I care_ //
> 
> A Stranger || A Perfect Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Model C** : This refers a type of rowing machine made by Concept2. They are still good machines, but somewhat "outdated" due to the Model D and Model E designs by Concept2. [Image of a model C](http://www.concept2.com/files/images/service/indoor-rowers/model-c.jpg).  
>  **Model D** : A newer model of rowing machine made by Concept2. It has a more accurate monitor and a sleeker design with a more comfortable grip on the handle than the old Model C. [Image of a Model D](http://www.concept2.com/files/images/service/indoor-rowers/model-d-original.jpg).
> 
>  
> 
> **The Model E** is technically their newest design, but Model D's are quite common and can be made with the same monitor the Model E's have.

Aside from lunch on Saturday, Marco and I don’t really hang out for the remainder of the weekend. We each have our own separate assignments we need to do, things we need to take care of. But Monday rolls around more quickly than I had expected. Cog Psych is a breeze, as it usually is. The professor is laid back and seems like the type to enjoy an essay rather than brute force memorization, which frankly, is my kind of professor.

After Cog Psych, I’m torn between heading back to my dorm or texting Marco and seeing what he’s up to. I’m honestly not sure if he has any other classes on Mondays, aside from Neuro. I hadn’t really thought to ask… With a sigh, I head off towards my dorm, hesitating as I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up Marco’s texts. With a quick bite of my lip, I type out a brief message to him before I can even start to second guess myself.

**To: Marco Bodt  
** _Busy?_

I stuff my phone back into my pocket and trudge onward, fobbing into my building and heading towards my room. My key’s barely turned the locks when I get a response from him. 

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Stuck in calculus :(_

With a smile, I shove the door open. Connie is sprawled across the floor watching TV, Reiner having already overtaken the couch, a notebook slumped across his face and snoring.

“Where’s Bert?” I ask half-heartedly as I enter, phone still in hand.

“Library.” Connie says flatly, hardly looking up at me as he scrolls through his Netflix queue.

“Ah…”

Glancing around the living room, I decide to simply retreat to my room.

Phone still in hand, I toss my bag at the foot of my bed and plop down on the mattress, staring down at Marco’s text contemplatively. It’s such a simple conversation and yet here I am stuck on what exactly I should say next.

Trying not to really think too hard about my words, I quickly type out a reply.

**To: Marco Bodt  
** _Need someone to bust you out?_

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Courageous, but I think I can survive another 20 minutes of torture_

I tap the side of my phone idly, staring down at his messages. I know I’m thinking about this way too much and I can’t get that stupid flutter out of my stomach, no matter how much I try and squash it down. I hardly even know what to do with myself sometimes. Just a few days ago, I had literally been trying to convince myself that I hated this kid… trying desperately to convince myself of anything that would allow me to keep my distance. And now, here I sit, staring at my phone, nibbling on my lip, and wondering what would be alright for me to say.

Marco’s my friend… or at least, he and I are getting there… but with how I’m acting, you’d think I’d never had friends before.

No, the honest truth is that I’ve never had friends I felt so… drawn to. I’ve never had friends I’ve craved or desired.

Daniel… Daniel, I craved. But he was never my friend. And he made that perfectly clear to me by the end of… by the end of whatever it was we were.

I shake my head, trying to tell it to stop its constant thinking and second guessing, forcing myself to type out a response to Marco before I have time to delete it.

**To: Marco Bodt  
** _You free after? Could chill till neuro._

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Psh, you just wanna peep my notes again, worried you’re gunna wind up putting “Up Your Ass” for one of the answers._

I actually laugh out loud in my quiet room at his reply, before another text comes through.

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Meet at mine in 20ish_

**To: Marco Bodt  
** _Sounds good_

I turn off my phone screen and shove it in my pocket with a quiet breath. Feet pressed into the floor, I let my eyes rest on my bag. I should probably grab some workout clothes for crew. I stand quickly and grab a pair of spandex and a t-shirt, shoving them into my bag, before just staring around my room absently. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s only been 5 minutes, and I still have to wait before I make my way to Marco’s room.

I shouldn’t feel like this, I shouldn’t be this anxious. I feel like my own brain can’t even fully comprehend the drastic switch in my emotions when it comes to Marco. The switch seems to be just too much for my fragile psyche to handle, and so it seems to feel the only logical response is to make me feel like an absolute twit. I sigh and glance at my watch again. It’s been about 10 minutes, I could probably justify heading that way if I walked really slowly.

But I apparently just don’t walk slowly enough. I’m at Marco’s room before he is; no big surprise there. I’m not really even sure why I bother to knock. I know he isn’t there, and my knocks are met with only silence. I breathe out slowly and wonder how I can best avoid looking like a creep while I wait for him. I slip my bag from my shoulder and plop it on the floor beside me, opting to lean against the wall beside his door and browse my phone as nonchalantly as I can.

I’m browsing through my news highlights idly, shaking my head a bit as one pops up about a couple in Florida who were trapped in a closet for two days only to find out the closet was never actually locked in the first place*. I really shouldn’t laugh, but goddamn. I’m so lost in my thoughts about this poor deranged couple, that I don’t even hear the doorway to the stairwell open and shut.

“Boo!” Marco whispers, suddenly in my face. I nearly drop my goddamn phone.

Where the fuck had he come from?

“Warn a guy, goddamn…” I mutter, stuffing my (thankfully) rescued phone into my pocket… for safety reasons.

Marco just laughs and shakes his head, unlocking the door to his room and grabbing ahold of my hoodie to drag me inside. I can feel his fist balled up in the fabric, pulling hard, and commanding.

_As soon as I’m past the threshold, he twists his grip in my hoodie, turning me around, pushing me back, using my body to shut the door. My back flush against the door, he steps in close to me, chest pressing flush against my own as he breathes in steady time with me. Just barely taller than me, he looks down at me, hair in his half-lidded eyes. His mouth is cocked into a smirk as he releases his grip on my hoodie, moving his hand to press flat against the door beside my head._

_He leans down, angling his head ever so slightly, just right to catch my mouth with his own._

“-eview anything before class?”

I shake my head, realization suddenly hitting me, my brain suddenly falling back into place. I’m definitely leaning back against the door, but Marco is across the room digging through his bag. With a blank look on my face, I stammer.

“W-what?”

“Did you want to review before class? We’ve got a couple hours still.” He responds, turning his attention towards me as he pulls one of his notebooks from his bag.

I push off the door quickly, unsure how long I’ve been leaning against it. He seems to note my blank expression.

“…Or we can watch TV or something? You look about brain dead…”

“Thanks…” I deadpan to him, earning myself a laugh. Play it cool, Jean. “How about both?”

“Sure.”

He flicks the television on, some crappy local cable news station playing softly in the room. I’m thankful for the background noise, thankful for something to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat. I’m sure it’s pounding loud enough that Marco could hear it if he were quiet long enough. I force myself to swallow. It’s suddenly very hot in this room, but I can’t bring myself to strip myself of my hoodie.

Goddamn, what’s wrong with me?

A couple days of improved relations with this kid, and I’m fantasizing like a school girl. Four days ago, I was trying to convince myself this kid wasn’t attractive, this kid wasn’t nice, this kid wasn’t worth being friends with. And now here I am, standing in the middle of his dorm like a damn moron, caught up in my thoughts, and probably staring at him like he’s the goddamn sun. Good god, I’m becoming Jaeger.

Jesus Christ, no.

That thought alone is enough to make me focus and steel myself, at least for a bit. With local news playing softly in the background, Marco and I trade information easily. We focus mostly on mechanisms. This quiz is mostly going to cover taste and we both know that, but if I know Pixis, he’ll definitely want details of the mechanisms.

“Just trust me, man…” I say to Marco as we flip through his index cards. This guy really is diligent; makes me look kinda lazy in comparison, but oh well. At least I’m studying. “I had Bio with Pixis freshman year. He loves mechanisms.”

“Fine, fine.”

Despite the fact that studying is boring, the time with Marco actually goes by pretty quickly, too quickly, if you ask me. Next thing I know, it’s almost 1:20 and he and I are having to scramble to get out the door and head to class.

We slide into the lecture hall, trailing behind a few classmates, and Marco begins to move down the steps before he stops at a row much higher than the row he usually sits in. It’s the row I had made a point to sit in last Friday and Wednesday when I was attempting to avoid him. I shake my head and follow him as he slides towards the middle.

“Don’t wanna sit closer?” I ask him, settling down into my seat and grabbing a couple pencils. Marco just shrugs.

“You seemed to like this spot.”

I smile and bump his arm as Pixis comes in, already telling us about the quiz and handing out a few copies. Marco grins at me one more time before turning his attention to his paper.

“Don’t write ‘ass’,” is all he says with a quick wink, and I have to try to suppress my giggle as I get started.

**::**

Marco and I continue this way surprisingly easily for the next few weeks. I’m actually pretty impressed with my resolve… I’m pretty impressed with the way I’ve actually stayed rather positive with him. I dare say, we’ve more or less become friends. And I like it… I like him. And no matter the fact that a small part of me still wishes that things could go back to the way they were before Marco came here, before Thomas left, I can’t deny that as the days go by, I find myself thinking that way less and less.

Marco is still beautiful, in all the same ways Daniel was, and I know it. He still has porcelain white teeth, and he if wanted, he could bear them down into my body and tear me limb from limb. He still has beautiful freckles dribbled along his skin like drops of poison waiting to be tasted and licked by anyone who might dare to get too close. But he isn’t Daniel, and I’m slowly coming to realize that those alabaster fangs may not be fangs at all… and those freckles might not be poison. They might just be freckles that are splattered across a comforting, smiling face.

And it’s as much as I can do to accept Marco for who he is. He’s a warm soul – a gentle glimmer of optimism in a world that would have you believe that  _all_ beautiful things come with great risk. And I’m okay with that.

I still don’t allow myself too much alone time with him though. Merely for the sake of my own sanity. But our interactions are pleasant, and even coach seems pleased with our performance. I can’t pretend like he and I don’t row together in ways that I have never truly experienced. Every drill we do is perfectly timed, every movement of our oars perfectly in sync, power always evenly matched, the only sounds I care about the beating of my heart as it thumps along with the click of our oars.

It works. And I’m happy for it.

Reiner notices the change almost immediately. After that first evening, when he had so abruptly forced me to go and talk to Marco, he had noticed the improvement almost instantly. He always was the observant one. He doesn’t say much about it at first, opting instead to simply smile at me as he watches Marco and I converse and laugh, carrying oars down to the dock together, messing around with each other in the boat. I particularly enjoy flicking the back of Marco’s head when he’s busy talking to Armin, then pretending like he’s going crazy when he calls me on it.

Reiner says I’m ‘pulling pigtails on the playground’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Reiner does try to talk to me a few times about Marco as time goes on. Occasionally getting me alone in the dorms, or walking back from practice. He does his best not to mention Marco’s name… goes out of his way not to mention Daniel’s, and for that I’m grateful. But I know he can tell I don’t want to talk about any of it. I know he can tell that for now, I’m pushing aside the way Reiner had seen through me that night I’d apologized to Marco. I know he can tell that for now, I’m going to convince myself that things are okay.

For now, I can maintain. For now, I can pretend like my attraction is merely meaningless infatuation. For now, I can pretend that the way I feel is nothing more than a passing fancy.

But the looks on Reiner’s face whenever I tell him not to worry tell me he knows me all too well.

**::**

We’ve only got a couple more weeks until our first race, and our practices have begun to reflect that. Intensity has increased, splits have gotten lower and lower, and demands from Levi have gotten higher and higher. After the kind of week Levi has put us through, I honestly can’t be happier for the respite the weekend offers.

On Saturday, I resolve that I will do as little as is required of me. Ingest food, procrastinate on homework, let my friends go out and have their little weekend adventures while I watch mindless television on Netflix. Everything is going according to plan. That is, until there’s a sudden loud knock on my door. I startle on the couch, glancing briefly at my watch. It’s almost 8:30 pm… who the hell would be banging on my door now?

“Hang on!” I yell as another hard, enthusiastic knock resounds through the wood. “I’m coming!”

I pry myself up off the couch and open the door. I wasn’t expecting to see Marco standing there, though.

“Hey,” I say, “I thought you were goin’ out with Bert and them?”

“Nahh,” He says back, leaning against the doorframe. “I didn’t wanna go if you weren’t going.”

I furrow my brow and try to hide my smile. That’s a little… unexpected.

“Oh, gotcha…”

“So what are you up to?” Marco asks, leaning forward a bit to try and peek around me into the dorm.

“Nothing. Melting my brains with some mindless television.”

“Cool, well I was gunna go get a workout. Thought I’d see if you wanted to come.”

“Workout? Now? It’s 8:30.”

“Means the gym will be empty.” He replies with a grin and a wink.

I’m going to just pretend the wink didn’t happen.

“So… wanna tag along?”

I’m about to tell him no. I’m about to tell him that I fully intend on spending the rest of my night as a hard, unmoving lump on the couch. But it’s something about his eagerness, it’s something about how he immediately thought to see if I wanted to tag along with him. And before I know it, I’m saying yes, and telling him to hang on while I change. He opts to wait in the hall as I quickly slide some spandex on and pull my jeans up over them. I emerge back in the hall quickly, tell him I’m ready, and lock the door behind me as we head towards the gym.

Given the late hour and the fact that it’s the weekend, we don’t have any choice but to go to the on-campus gym. The boathouse and the erg room would undoubtedly be locked, but the on-campus gym would do fine. It consists of a large weight room, with cardio machines such as treadmills and elliptical machines. The gym only has two rowing machines, stored down the hallway in the farthest corner by one of the racquetball courts, but that’s all we really need.

Marco’s right though: at this hour on a Saturday, the gym is a ghost town. We cut through the weight room and head towards the back hallway by the courts. The back hall is dark and I can see Marco pause before he ventures down it.

“Hang on,” I say, before trotting towards the middle of the hall. I’m going to look like an idiot, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Without hesitation, I begin to jump up and down and wave my arms. Suddenly, the lights begin to flicker on, illuminating the hallway and the courts. As they come on, I see Marco smirking hard at me. The look on his face is a mixture of mockery and hilarity.

“Don’t say a word,” I tell him firmly as he moves down the hall towards me.

“That was… that was beautiful…” he scoffs out, obviously holding in some laughter. I can only sigh as we walk down the rest of the hall.

“The lights are motion activated.” I mumble grumpily. I can tell though that he is still desperate to laugh. With a huff, I tell him, “Oh, go on, get it out.”

He doesn’t wait a moment before giggling wildly, like what I had just done was the funniest goddamn thing he’d seen all day. I’m doing my best to be bitter, but I can’t help but smile a little bit at the fact that I’ve made Marco laugh like that.

“Okay…” he pauses, letting one more laugh slip past his lips, “Okay, I’m done.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was fuckin’ riot.” We come up on the end of the hall, where the two rowing machines are stood upright side by side against the wall. He and I both grab one and tilt them down to roll them along the hall.

“So, should we just set them in the hall?” He asks, looking around.

“Yeah, they don’t really give us any good spots for these around here. We could always set them in one of the racquetball courts, but I honestly hate it.” I tell him, “They’re so echo-y, you can’t hear yourself think over the sounds of the erg fans, and the room gets really hot really fast.”

“Hallway it is.” Marco says flatly as he and I drag our ergs to sit side by side in the middle of the hall.  As we lower them down, Marco takes one look at them and speaks again.

“Oh shit, these are model C’s.”

“Yeah… The team used these for a good long while, then Director Smith came along and got the team more funding, so we upgraded to the newer models, and sold off most of the C’s. They kept two though for the gym. It’s mostly idiots who don’t know how to row who wind up using these.”

“Oh well… We’ll make do, I guess.”

There’s nothing inherently wrong with Model C ergs, really. If you’re looking for something that will count meters, determine your average split and stroke rate, and tell you the time you’ve rowed, then you’re set. They aren’t bad machines, they’re just older. The newer models have monitors that are far more accurate as far as determining power, split, stroke rate, etc… But these do just fine. My biggest issue with the Model C is the handle.

The newer models of rowing machines have handles which are smooth but grippable and they’re gentler on your hands. (I say ‘gentler’ because in rowing, you can always expect to have torn up hands, it’s just that the newer erg models will tear them up less quickly). The Model C handles, however, are rough, and while that may be good for grip, it certainly isn’t good for my hands.

“So… what were you wanting to do?” I ask Marco idly, trying my best not to stare as he and I both strip off our jeans down to our spandex.

“I was thinking ten 500 meter pieces.”

“Good god, why?”

“Could be fun.”

“Fun? You're a masochist… Did someone hurt you in the past? Do you need to talk?”

“Oh come on, drama queen, it isn’t that bad.”

I sigh before reluctantly plopping down onto my erg for a quick warm up.

“I hate you…” I mumble. Marco laughs, sitting and starting up his own warm up.

“I know you do.”

**::**

To my credit, I make it through eight out of ten pieces before I have any major issues with the ergs we’re on. Sure, I’m in tremendous pain and I’ve contemplated at least four different ways I could murder Marco and get away with it. But all in all, it’s okay. Because despite my complaining, it actually has been nice to work out with Marco.

I wish I knew how to properly describe it, but it seems to defy words. Rowers are lucky to find someone with whom they click on almost every technical level. Reiner and Bertholdt are an amazing example of it. They know each other through and through, and it translates easily to the ergs and to the water. Ymir and Krista would probably be the same way if there weren’t such a difference in height between them. But it would seem that Marco and I have that same connection. I hardly even have to watch him to know that we are perfectly together.

And it’s kind of intoxicating. The rush of the endorphins, the thrill of the pain, the exquisite sight of Marco beside me, the sound of his heavy, rhythmic breathing, our bodies moving with precision and finesse as we course through each piece.

But this eighth piece… this eighth piece is having its way with me. Or, more specifically, with my hands. I could feel the blisters forming during the first few pieces we did, but as we’ve progressed, the pain has become more and more intense in my left hand, and it’s gotten to a point where the ache and burn and stinging of it is commanding my full attention. It’s taking all my effort to make sure I stay exactly on pace with Marco, and I’m gritting my teeth as we push through the last one hundred meters. Each pull of the handle sends pain shooting through my hand, and it’s as much as I can do to grip the handle tighter and tell myself to just push it out till the end.

The meters finally tick down to zero, and I release the handle immediately, letting it fling back up the catch rather than ease it into its holder. It’s bad for the machine, and I know it, but right now I couldn’t care less. I release it with a pained groan and unhook my feet, pivoting on my seat to place my feet firmly on the ground as I grip my injured hand. My palm is raw and red, and I can tell it’s been bleeding, the reddish mixture of blood and sweat smeared across my skin.

Marco is already up off his erg and kneeling down in front of me. He doesn’t hesitate before taking ahold of my injured hand and inspecting it. His fingers are warm against my own, and his touch is calm and gentle, and right now, I can’t really tell if the burning feeling in my gut is from the pain or from his touch as it glides gently across my skin.

I hiss hard as his finger accidentally touches an open part of the large, torn blister in the middle of my palm.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He whispers comfortingly, his eyes never leaving my hand.

He grazes his fingertips along the couple of unpopped blisters that have formed too, his brow furrowed as he inspects them.

“Ah, Jean, you were definitely gripping that handle too hard…”

“Yes, thank you, Captain-freaking-Obvious.” I snark back to him, immediately regretting my harsh tone.

He looks up at me, catching my eyes with his, and I already know he hadn’t appreciated my words.

“Sorry…” I mumble to him, “it just hurts.” I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let me. The fingers of his right hand are gently holding onto my own, and his other hand is dancing its way along the injury. His touch, despite the pain whenever it comes too close to the damage, is comforting and warm, and the tremble in my hand has all but stopped beneath his gentle grip.

“Marco…” I whisper softly, and he looks up at me.

The look on his face is one of concern and something else I can’t identify… and I don’t want to look away from him. I don’t want him to stop touching my hand, despite the stinging pain that’s shooting through it. I feel his thumb gently caress against the uninjured skin of my fingers and I have to force myself to swallow. He’s still looking up at me and I honestly can’t read him. I can’t tell what the look on his face means, and I’m honestly not entirely what’s happening between us right now, but I’m okay with it. Because he’s staring up at me, his hands on mine, eyes locked with mine, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of moment this is…

But before I know it, the moment’s gone, and Marco is shaking his head and patting my shoulder briefly.

“Come on,” he says, standing up fully. “I have some things in my room that should help.”

“Gotta clean the erg…” I mumble back to him, motioning towards the handle that’s got some of my sweat and blood on it.

“Oh right.” He says. I nod over to the wall where there’s a cleaning towel dispenser and he jogs over, grabs one, and quickly sets to wiping off the erg handle and gathering up our stuff.

**::**

I’m a little nervous heading back to Marco’s room. I really shouldn’t be. But I can’t get that look out of my head: that look on his face as he had stared up at me, touching my hand and fingers, locking his gaze with my own.

He and I don’t say much on the walk back to Maria, and I’m honestly pretty grateful for it. Holding onto my injured hand, trying my best not to mess with some of the blisters that had built up and formed around it, I walk beside him in silence.

Marco ushers me into his room and tells me to take a seat wherever. He moves then to the bathroom and I can hear him rummaging around in the drawers. I look at his desk chair for a moment. That’s really probably where I should sit. But I opt instead for his bed, leaning down and sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. I don’t know why I sat down here… but I’m hoping he doesn’t say anything.

He emerges after another moment with a rag, a bandaid, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. That’s gunna feel awesome, I think to myself. I cringe at the mere sight of it. He sets the items down on the bed before he starts digging around in a small basket sitting on top of his mini fridge. I can’t help but wonder what exactly he’s doing.

“You like tea?” He asks absently, still digging around in the basket.

“I guess… What kind?”

“Chamomile is what I have right now.”

“That’s fine.” I murmur, not really caring all that much about the tea.

He finally fishes out a tea bag and a mug and retreats into the bathroom again. I hear the sink running and he returns with a mug of water and plops it in the microwave, setting it to heat for a couple minutes before turning his attention back to me.

“Man, I miss having a tea kettle…” He mumbles to himself.

Marco comes and sits beside me and ushers me to face him a bit. I shift my body hesitantly, trying my best to look anywhere but at his face. He doesn’t wait before he takes my hand; it’s feeling better by now, but I still can’t help the way I hiss at his touch.

“Sorry, sorry…” He says before reaching behind him and grabbing the rag and some alcohol.

Marco pours a little bit of the alcohol onto the washrag, making sure a small square of it is wet enough. I can’t help but try to recoil a bit. This isn’t going to be pleasant. He keeps his grip steady and constant on my fingers as he holds my palm open. He has a small frown on his face as he looks at me.

“This is gunna hurt, kay?”

“Oh, I know. Go ahead.”

He doesn’t wait before pressing the alcohol against the raw skin of my palm. I feel the muscles in my arm clenching as burns and stings, but I refuse to pull away. Mostly because I don’t want to seem like I have zero pain tolerance in front of this guy, but also because I really don’t want him to stop touching my hand.

“You okay?” he asks, the rag still pressed against my hand. I can only nod as he lifts it and wipes a little bit at the popped, bloody blister. The part of the white rag against my flesh is turning a slightly pinky color. There hadn’t been much blood, mostly just a little from the skin rubbing raw after the blister itself had popped, but it seems it’s enough. Marco doesn’t seem to mind though. Behind him, the microwave dings that it’s done.

“Hang on,” he tells me, standing and pulling the mug out of the microwave and plopping the tea bag in it. I can’t help but watch him as he moves, pulling out a couple sugar packets and waving them at me, asking me silently if I want them. I nod my affirmation. He watches the tea steep for a moment longer before grabbing the rag off the bed and moving to the bathroom and running the water.

He returns with the rag, now wet from the sink, and sits beside me again, not even hesitating as he takes my hand in his again. Marco gently presses the rag against my palm. The rag is warm and wet, and the feeling of it is actually pretty comforting against my damaged hand. But it’s hard to tell if I’m comforted by the warmth of the rag or by the warmth of Marco’s fingers as he tenderly clutches my hand and cleans it.

“Feel okay?” Marco whispers to me, hushed and tender.

“Y-yeah, definitely, uh. Definitely better.”

I’m stammering and I know it. But I’m honestly not sure what to do with this moment. He and I are too close, and this all feels much too intimate to simply be friendly. It’s all I can do to just… swallow, breathe normally, to not shake as he touches me. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

With a quick turn of his head, he glances at the mug of tea that’s still steeping, and stands, leaving me to hold the rag against my own palm now. He fishes the tea bag out with a spoon and sets it down on a paper towel. I’m expecting him to bring the mug over to me, but instead he brings the paper towel with the tea bag on it over to the bed. With a furrow of my brow, I watch as he sits again and set the paper towel and tea bag down atop his comforter and takes my hand in his again. He pulls the wet rag away, tears off a corner of the paper towel and dabs gently at my palm to dry it, before placing the bandaid flat across it. He uses his thumbs to seal it down, rubbing across my palm with the gentlest of a caress. 

It’s done, the bandaid is on. I should pull my hand away. But he still hasn’t let go of me. And next thing I know, he grabs the somewhat wet tea bag and brings it to my hand. He doesn’t wait before pressing the tea bag, still a bit hot and soppy, down against some of the blisters that had begun to form and had either popped or were on the verge of popping.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, starting to pull my hand back. But his grip tightens a bit and he persists, holding the tea bag against my blisters more firmly.

“Trust me, Jean. Wet tea bags can help blisters, I promise. They’re acidic so they help a bit with the pain and they can help harden them so they don’t pop or tear.”**

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yes.” He draws his gaze up to mine, meeting it with a soft smile. “You’ve really never done this?”

“No… sure haven’t…”

“Well…” He mumbles softly, eyes locking with my own. “There’s a first time for everything.”

I feel his fingers as they glide gently over mine, his other hand still pressing the tea bag across my blisters as he does. He’s biting his lower lip now and smirking at me, eyes bright and focused on my own as he lets his thumb drag across the bandaid in the middle of my palm once more.

I can’t fucking breathe.

This is too much. He’s too close. I can feel my heart beginning to pound: harder, and harder, and fucking harder until I feel like it might burst from my chest. I could do it… if I wanted to. We’re close enough. I could easily lean forward, capture his mouth with my own, breathe in the smell of his skin, taste him, drag my tongue along his lips. I can feel my fingers begin to shake and with every ounce of willpower I possess, I pull my hand from his grip and divert my attention pointedly towards the floor. The tea bag falls from my palm, plopping down onto the floor with a wet splat.

“Shit,” I mumble, crouching down to grab it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” He says back calmly. He leans back on his hands on the mattress, eyes simply watching me as I pick it up and stand, holding onto it questioningly for a moment longer, before tossing it in the garbage.

“I uh… I need to, I should go.” I’m back to stammering, and I can’t seem to stop it. But I need some space, I need to get away from this.

“Jean…” Marco says to me, eyes still focused and soft, and I can’t help but match his gaze and stare back at him.

My tea is sitting there abandoned by the microwave. I’m standing in the middle of the room and he’s still sitting on that bed and it looks almost as if he’s waiting for me. He looks like he’s wanting, like he’s waiting for me to come closer. But I know he isn’t. He couldn't be. 

The space between us is way too much… it absolutely isn’t enough… For all I know that foot and a half between our bodies could be an inch, it could be a fucking mile, and I wouldn’t be happy with it.

“I’ll see you around.” I tell him, already heading towards his door.

That’s when he stands, when I’m halfway out his door, and grabs my bicep like he had that night I had apologized to him.

“Jean?” he says questioningly, turning my body a bit.

“Yeah?” I reply nervously, trying like to hell to hide the quake in my voice.

“Make sure you keep that clean. Put some Neosporin on it tomorrow if you have some.”

“Oh, o-okay. I will.”

I turn again and move into the hall, when I hear him call again from behind me.

“Text me tomorrow?”

I turn and look back at him, and he’s looking out at me like he had that night, he’s looking at me like he had just a few moments ago on the bed. Questioning and eager and I honestly don’t know what the fuck to do with any of this.

“I will.”

“Goodnight, Jean.”

“Night, Marco…”

I don’t wait another moment before I’m hurrying down the stairwell and rushing back to my own dorm. It’s blessedly empty when I arrive, and it’s all I can do to get inside. I’m in my bedroom in a flash, closing the door and leaning against it heavily, just trying to breathe.

Just breathe. Just... breathe... 

I won’t do this again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In case anyone is wondering, yes, there was a recent news story from Florida about a couple who were "trapped" in a closet for two days and the closet wasn't even locked... 
> 
> **Also yes, tea bags can help blisters. They aren't miraculous or anything, but they do help with the healing and hardening a bit. :) 
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments. I'm still having a time processing the number of hits on this thing, wow. You guys are so amazing. Thank you SO much for reading. 
> 
> Also... Sorry to leave you hanging. Tehe.
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). And would love some more SNK/Jeanmarco peeps to follow.


	10. Catch Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//Pick apart_   
>  _The pieces of your heart_   
>  _And let me peer inside_   
>  _Let me in_   
>  _Where only your thoughts have been_   
>  _Let me occupy your mind_   
>  _As you do mine//_
> 
> Heart's a Mess || Gotye 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Terms**  
>  **Spring Sprints** : Sprint races, 2000 meters. These races are done "head to head". They line 6 boats up at the start, and wave a flag. At the drop of the flag, crews start rowing and sprint it out till the finish line.  
>  **Tapering** : The practice of making workouts progressively easier/shorter the week before a race. It's a great way to really get the most of all the training a rower has been doing, and gives the body appropriate time to rest up for a race.  
>  **Derigging** : The act of removing the metal riggers from the boats so the boats can be loaded onto the trailer for transport. Here is what a trailer looks like with derigged boats on it [Boat Trailer](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/72/WinTech_Trailer.jpg)  
>  **Heat** : A qualifier race that determines which boats go to the final race. If an event (such as the Mixed 8+ race) has 12 boats, they will have two heats of 6 boats race. The top 3 boats from each of the two heats will go to the final. Winners are determined by the final.  
>  **Start Dock** : The floating dock that marks the start of a spring race. Boats back into it and are held still and lined up evenly by volunteers holding the stern of each boat. They look like [THIS](http://www.hallsten.com/crewprodock/assets/images/CSUS-Rowing-Dock2mid.jpg).  
>  **False Start** : When a boat starts rowing before the flag has dropped. Officials will call it a false start, and all boats will return back to the start dock to restart the race.  
>  **Scull It** : A command for a rower to grab the oar of the person behind them and take small, baby strokes with it. This is a good tactic for making VERY tiny adjustments to trajectory. Most adjustments will be made by having the bow rowers scull it, but if it's a small enough correction, a coxswain can have the stern rowers scull it.  
>  **Catching a Crab** : What happens when a rower doesn't remove their oar blade from the water in a timely manner, causing the oar to "catch" in the water and swing so it's caught parallel to the boat. During a crab, the oar handle is pushed towards the rower, and extreme crabs can sometimes even knock a rower out of a boat. If you want a good laugh, please watch this video of a rower getting ejected because of a crab: [Seriously It's Hilarious](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34A5pQjwmCk)

The day following the “blisters incident”, as I’m not-so-affectionately calling it, I’m supposed to text Marco. I told him that I would, and yet I’ve tried to garner up the courage at least ten times so far and haven’t been able to type out more than a word.

What the hell am I supposed to say? “Sup, man?”, “Good morning.”, “You touching my bloody blisters is a huge turn on, apparently.”? Honestly, there isn’t a lot that I can say today that will make what happened yesterday any less uncomfortable.

But ultimately, it’s Marco who texts me around noon. A simple, easy text about how he slept in super late and asking if I want to go to lunch. The texts seem straightforward and casual enough, but I’m still hesitant to reply. What if he wants to talk about last night? What if when I meet up with him, he demands to know why I was staring at him like I was last night? Or what if he wants to know why I freaked out and left in such a rush? And if he asks, what am I even supposed to say? There’s just no good answer that wouldn’t make things extremely awkward.

Okay. It’s okay. I need to get a freaking grip.

I breathe in deeply, typing out and sending my affirmation to him with my eyes closed. 

He replies just telling me he’ll be at the café in about ten minutes.

Alright. That’s okay. This is going to be okay.

Slowly but surely, I steel myself, get dressed, and head out towards the café.

**::**

Marco is all smiles and bright eyes, standing outside the campus café by the patio and waiting for me. I shoot him a quick wave, mentally telling myself to just stay cool. Marco _looks_ happy enough. He doesn’t look… angry… or accusatory. He doesn’t even look inquisitive. Maybe things will be alright, maybe I’m freaking out about nothing. 

“Hey you!” He says enthusiastically.

“Hey.”

Marco doesn’t even hesitate before he grabs ahold of my hand and starts looking over my palm. I’m actually a little taken aback at the way he just takes my hand as if it’s nothing, gripping it with his own right on the patio, like we were… like we were… Nothing, never mind.

I’ve still got the bandaid plastered in the middle of my palm, unwilling to take it off mostly because of the pain, but also somewhat because it reminds me, however briefly, of the feeling of Marco’s thumbs pressing it down against my skin. But now he’s here again, standing with me out in the sunshine, holding my hand up to inspect it and running his fingers over some of the other blisters he had tended to.

“These certainly look better.” He mumbles with a smile, releasing my hand gently.

“Tea bags apparently work magic.” I say back to him. He laughs a bit and opens the door for me.

Heading into the café, I immediately spot Connie, Sasha, Bertholdt, and Reiner all sitting together. Thank freaking god, some buffers. I beeline towards them, Marco trailing behind me by only a pace. I’m a little disappointed that the majority of them seem to be almost finished with their food, but oh well, at least they can serve as a buffer between myself and Marco for a little while…

“Hey guys,” I say as Marco pulls up beside me.

“Look who finally rejoined the land of the living.” Connie smirks at me.

“Very funny.”

“Mmph-hi Jean-mm-Marco.” Sasha mutters around a mouthful of food.

“Hi Sash.”

Marco grabs two extra chairs from an empty table and wedges them up to where our friends are sitting. He drops his lanyard down into one and catches my gaze, flicking his head towards the food. I nod swiftly and follow as he moves his way over towards the line. As I’m walking away, I just barely hear Sasha sighing and speaking.

“Reiner, are they screwing yet?”

I fling my gaze back at her, but she merely avoids my stare with a not-so-innocent smirk on her face. I turn back and follow Marco, but I’m not even out of earshot when I hear her once again.

“Really?? Come on... No way.”

I sigh. Reiner _better_ have said “No.”

Back at the table with our food, Marco plops down into his chair.

“So,” he starts, “how rough can I expect Levi to be on us this week?”

“Oh, not very.” Bertholdt chimes in quickly, crumpling up his napkin and tossing it on his plate.

“Really? A week before a race?”

“Oh, no, dude,” Connie says, stretching out quickly, letting his arm rest lightly on the back of Sasha’s chair as she picks at some straight bacon bits from her meal. “Levi wholeheartedly supports tapering. The week before the race is probably the easiest week we’ll have this season.”

“Oh, hell yeah.” Marco says, taking a large bite of his wrap.

“Did your coaches not taper?” I ask, genuinely curious, because it suddenly occurs to me that I never actually asked Marco about his rowing history. I literally know next to nothing about where this guy has rowed, what he’s seen, or how he’s practiced. The most I know is that he’s rowed for 8 years and his technique is the stuff that angels would jerk off to.

Marco finishes chewing and shakes his head, wiping his mouth on his napkin before addressing me.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Most would only give us one or two days to taper. I always thought it wasn’t really… enough… but hey.”

Reiner shakes his head.

“Yeah, man. Levi wants us tapering a full five days ahead.”

“I am not gunna complain about that.”

**::**

As predicted, our friends are ready to leave far before Marco or I have finished our food, which means they’ll be leaving me alone with him. I knew it was coming. Oh well, at least I can be happy that they were here for a while to act as my conversational distractions. As they’re standing up to leave, I spot Armin heading over to our table, Mikasa and Eren trailing behind him.

“Hey foxy coxy!” Reiner says, clapping Armin on the shoulder lightly. “What news from the Rialto?”

Armin smiles at us, as does Mikasa. And Eren smiles at everyone except for me, and I can’t say I expected any different. I just shake my head and turn my attention back to my food.

“Is that all you guys like me for? Your daily torture information?” Armin asks flatly.

“Yes. So what are we doing?” Sasha deadpans, staring expectantly at the blond.  Armin shakes his head but answers the question anyway.

“Probably just a couple 750’s or 1k’s on the water… Last I heard, at least.”

“I can live with that,” the brunette says, gathering up the remainders of her food basket and garbage.

Reiner and Bertholdt give Marco and me a wave, trailing after Connie, Sasha, and the others as they head out of the café. It’s only then I notice exactly how much space there is at the table now, and how little space there is in between Marco’s chair and my own. I should probably scoot over, slide my chair a little bit, give the two of us a bit more breathing room. But I don’t and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe I’m just waiting for Marco to make that move. But he isn’t moving, opting instead to finish off the last bites of his wrap and chips, not a care at all about the (lack of) space between us.

“I kept meaning to ask,” he starts, digging out a couple broken chips out of the bottom of the bag.

At those few words, I can feel my anxiety rising, the food I’m trying to swallow now suddenly feels tight in my throat. This is the moment I was dreading. This is the moment where Marco wants to know exactly what the hell I was doing last night, why the hell I was acting so weird, why my hands trembled in his. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him when he asks. I don’t have any excuses. I don’t have any bullshit reasons. But I can’t exactly spew the truth out either, can I?

“What exactly is up with you and Eren?” He asks, crumpling up his garbage.

The sigh of relief my body tries to breathe is completely involuntary, but my body also apparently forgot that I’m currently attempting to eat at the same time. And so, the noise that comes out of my mouth is more of a cough-choke around a bite of sandwich than a sigh. Marco’s hand is already on my back, attempting to help.

“Jesus, dude, swallow then speak.”

“Wrong pipe,” I cough again, forcing the food to go where I freaking need it to go. “Sorry.”

Marco pats my back again as I take a quick drink of my Sprite. Clearing my throat one last time, I wipe my face with my napkin and ball it up, deciding quickly that I think I’m done with my food now.

“No, uh… We just aren’t "besties", I guess.” I say noncommittally.

“Seems a bit more hostile than just not being “besties”, you know?”

“Eh, it isn’t that hostile, really. We just… we butt heads, that’s really about the long and short of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Honestly, when he and I met in freshman year, we were kinda friends. At first. But that faded pretty damn quickly. I think it really just boils down to the fact that we’re too alike to get along.”

“In that, you’re both assholes?”

“Yes. Wait, no!”

Marco just laughs and elbows me as I glare at him.

“We’re both… _headstrong_ …”

“If that’s what you wanna call it, darlin’.”

Did he just call me “darlin”?

He doesn’t give me time to think about it though, already scooting his chair back and standing.

“Ready?”

“Yeah…” I mumble softly, gathering my stuff and standing with him.

**::**

The week ticks by quickly, and before I know it, it’s time for the first race of the season. The first race of a season is always interesting, mostly because it is simultaneously one of the easiest races of the season for a team, as well as one of the hardest races. It’s easier because the first race of the spring season is usually a smaller venue; typically there are fewer boats to compete with, and we don’t usually have to worry about heats. (Spring races typically have heats and finals if they’re large enough, as they usually only race 6 boats head to head at a time). But the first race of the season is also a bit rough, simply for the fact that it’s the first real test of a boat. It’s the first real test of how hard we’ve trained and how hard we’re willing to work for the gold. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t live for the feeling and the rush of a spring sprint.

I’d also be lying, though, if I said that I wasn’t extremely nervous for our first race with Marco. 

The regatta is out in Shiganshina, a good 2.5-3 hour drive away from Trost. Given that Shiganshina is Armin, Eren, and Mikasa’s home town, we typically drive up the night before and stay at one of their houses. Armin’s grandfather and Eren and Mikasa’s parents typically flip a coin to see who the “lucky” host will be (and of course, by “lucky”, I mean “the one who has to deal with a bunch of loud, smelly college students”). This year, I can only thank whatever god or goddess up in the heavens that the coin toss has us staying at Armin’s. The less Jaeger I have to deal with, the happier I will be.

We go through the usual pre-travel rituals at the boathouse with relative ease: derigging all the boats, slipping on the boat covers, loading them onto the trailer, and making sure all the equipment, riggers, oars, and tents are safely stowed. After, the team heads out in their separate vehicles to Shiganshina.   

Last year, I was kind enough to drive Thomas, Bertholdt, and Reiner to Shiganshina in my car, and so it’s only fair that this year, they’re gunna be touting my ass up there instead. And I can’t really say I’m surprised either when Bertholdt makes a point to offer the fourth spot in the car to Marco.

Reiner has affectionately labeled our car "The Stern Four Cruiser". But I prefer call it the “Sitting in Extremely Close Proximity to Marco for Several Hours” Cruiser. Reiner’s title does roll off the tongue a little more easily, though, I’ll admit that.

We load our bags into the trunk and hop in. The first thing Bertholdt does, before he even starts the freaking car, is hook up his iPod. I have to suppress my grin, because I can probably guess what’s about to happen next. Bert gets the car started, and everyone is buckled up and ready to go, and Reiner simply turns around in the passenger seat to address Marco.

“You cool with metal?”

Marco looks a little confused at first, but recovers quickly.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, totally. I’ll listen to pretty much anything.”

“Killer.” Reiner says, flashing a brief Hand of Horns at Marco, before turning back to the front. “Pump it up, baby!” He says to Bertholdt, turning up the volume on the stereo as Bertholdt selects a song.

Almost immediately, hard double bass drums and guitar start shredding through the speakers. I’m almost amused at the fact that I quickly and easily recognize the song to be “[Laser Cannon Deth Sentence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZX62imOapU)”, merely from having known Reiner and Bertholdt for 3 years and having heard this song _numerous_ times before in their cars. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco smile as the music blares and shake his head, and I’m not really sure if that means he’s amused or if it means he’s contemplating the many different ways he could sabotage the stereo.

I don’t really mind metal; hell, a lot of times I like it. But 3 solid hours of Reiner and Bertholdt headbanging can wear anybody down. Slyly, I slip my own iPod out of my pocket and pop my headphones into my ears. I turn on one of my travel playlists and slouch down in my seat a little bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Marco slouch down a bit too, trying his best to relax for the long drive.

With a small hint of hesitation, I gently bump his elbow with my own, garnering his attention. As he looks at me, I pop out one of my earbuds and hold it out, silently offering him my iPod if he wants it. What can I say? I can be nice sometimes. But Marco doesn’t seem to understand exactly what I’m offering. Because he smiles at me and all of a sudden, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and moving to the middle seat directly next to me and popping the one earbud into his ear, the second one still resting in my own ear.

Okay, then. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but okay…

The headphones are long and separate well enough, so we aren’t plastered against each other or anything. It isn’t unbearable or anything, so I decide to just not correct the situation, just letting him sit beside me and listen to music with me. Even over the metal playing through the car speakers, my music’s loud enough to be heard. Although, I feel like Shuffle could have probably done me a better favor than picking “[Paint the Rainbow Grey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5BLhq8yYjI)”… It’s slow and kind of personal for me… It’s a song that always reminded me of _him_ … but I just can’t bring myself to change it. Because Marco seems to like it. There’s a small smile on his face as he rests his head back on the seat and stares off idly, pressed shoulder to shoulder with me.

So I let it play. And out of the corner of my eye, I notice how Reiner takes one glance at us and changes the fade of the car speakers so their music isn’t playing in the back seat anymore.

**::**

It’s dark by the time the majority of the team makes it to Armin’s. The races start early the next morning, and we still have to get the boats rigged and ready to race. Levi is expecting us at the race site no later than 5:30 am, so I have absolutely no qualms about heading straight to bed after we grab a small bite to eat.

Armin’s got a pretty sizeable basement with plenty of floor space for us, although, the novice wind up having to scrounge for whatever space is left over after we claim our territory. I only feel a little bad. I get my sleeping bag and everything set up, making sure my uni is sat out and ready for me the next morning. I frankly shouldn’t even be surprised that Marco decides to camp right next to me, but I guess I was simply hoping that he might hang near someone else tonight. But, if I’m honest, I have to admit that the car ride here hadn’t been all that bad, and now it almost feels… normal… to have him planted by my side, even if it’s on the floor of a basement filled with 25+ other rowers.

Flopping onto my back and tucking my legs down into the warmth of my sleeping bag, I fold my hands beneath my head and crane over to watch Marco getting himself settled. He’s making sure his bag is tidy and making sure his uni is out and ready for the morning, just like mine is. It’s obvious that he’s a little fidgety though, a little more unsure and frenetic than he usually is. I clear my throat.

“Nervous?” I ask gently. He cranes his head over to me and gives me a half shrug.

“Eh, nah… I mean… Maybe a little.” He admits.

He settles down gently into his sleeping bag and rolls onto his side to face me.

“You shouldn’t be.” Is all I can think to say.

“It’s just…  pre-race jitters, you know? And it’s my first race with you guys. I don’t wanna… let you down or anything.”

I can’t help but wonder if by “let _you_ down”, he means the boat as a whole or if he means… _me_. I feel my brow furrow a bit, a sincere but soft expression lining my features. I shake my head.

“You won’t.” I tell him. And I mean it.

I know he won’t let us down. That’s not who Marco is.

He smiles at me, mouth quirked upwards in the tiniest of grins.

He looks so open, so vulnerable, so unguarded as he meets my eyes.

“Thanks… Goodnight, Jean.”

“Goodnight, Marco.”

**::**

I hear a small chorus of alarms going off and it is _way too fucking early_ for this bullshit. With a groan, I try to drag my sleeping bag further over my head, but it just isn’t long enough. Through bleary eyes, I can already see Marco stretching and hopping up quickly, grabbing ahold of his tooth brush and uni. He turns and smiles down at me, nudging me a bit with his foot.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” He says with a smile.

“Fuuuuuuck youuuuuuu.” I groan.

“You are such a gem in the mornings, truly.”

“Why are you so fucking perkyyyy?”

“I told you, virgin sacrifice. Now up and at ‘em!”

I sigh, hearing the rest of the room beginning to groan and shuffle as well. Begrudgingly I sit up and grab ahold of my toothbrush, standing with a grumble and following Marco and a couple novice towards the bathroom to brush. I’m done before Marco is, mostly because I’m ready to get out of a crowded bathroom that is way too small for five people to be wedged into.

I’m rolling up my sleeping bag as Marco comes back in, and he doesn’t even hesitate before he’s stripping down to his skivvies and slipping on his unisuit. I snap my head away from him, pointedly focusing on my current task, desperate not to look back at him in any state of undress. I shouldn’t be this flustered. Literally everyone in this room is doing the exact same thing. There’s a certain lack of boundaries that exists between rowers, and no one, men or women, tend to give a damn about changing in front of each other. Hell, I’ve literally done the exact same thing countless times before.

And it shouldn’t make me flush to see him do it now. I want to pretend I don’t know why my cheeks are heating up, I want to pretend that I don’t know exactly why I’m embarrassed to turn and see him shirtless, his uni pulled up to his waist but not slid over his shoulders. But I can’t even pretend. Because I know _exactly_ why the sight of his toned, freckled chest bothers me. It’s as much as I can do to muster up my courage to just act fucking _normal_ and to get my own unisuit on. I still make a point to face away from Marco as I do so, though.

When I turn back around, Marco’s got a sweatshirt pulled over his torso, his jeans already slid on over his unisuits. He’s all smiles and messed up hair and there’s a moment when I catch his gaze that I just want to step forward and drag my fingers through his tousled locks. But I don’t. Because his own fingers are already threading their way through, pushing it all back and away from his face. I bite my lip and force myself to look away, gathering up my stuff and preparing for us to head to the regatta site.

**::**

I think the worst thing about a regatta is not the actual race. And it isn’t even the time that leads up to the race, really. No, the absolute worst part of a spring regatta has to be the few minutes _right_ before the start of your race. You’ve already rowed up to the start, your muscles are nice and warmed up and ready, and everyone has had plenty of time to get the feel of each other, make any last minute tweaks, and prepare. But there’s always about 8 minutes or so when you’re sitting up at the start with several other boats, all of you trying to maneuver around each other and line yourselves up at the start docks, and make sure you’re 100% ready for that flag to drop.

“Parking it” is the most annoying part, and it’s the one thing that makes me really glad I’m not a coxswain. I mean, yeah, sometimes I envy Armin. The blond little bastard, getting to steer the boat, getting to sit back and yell at us while we push through minute after minute of miserable, grueling pain. But the effort it takes for a coxswain to get us situated before a sprint is something I straight up do not envy. First and foremost, you have to make sure you find the right slot that corresponds to your boat number, then you have to get your rowers to back you into the spot (straight) so that the race volunteers can hold onto the stern and try and keep you in place. In the meantime, you constantly are having to battle the natural currents of the water which are bound and determined to push and pull in your boat in all sorts of wonky directions. Depending on the river, a coxswain might constantly have to adjust and correct the trajectory to make sure the boat is pointed straight down the course. (And after all that effort, god help you if there’s a False Start, cause then you get to do it all over again.)

“Quiet in the boat, please.” Armin says gently into the microphone, as we all fall silent. “I need to hear the officials.”

“Trost Crew,” an official says through a megaphone, “forward two inches.”

The volunteer holding onto our stern edges our boat forward a couple inches.

“Shiganshina Crew, back half an inch.” The official says. I take a quick peek over at their boat, situated in the lane right beside us. We’re dead in the middle of the line up, so we’ve got at least the slight advantage of having a good view of all the crews around us. Having Shiganshina right next to us is probably good too. They’ve got a home-water advantage, so I’m sure Armin doesn’t mind being able to keep a close eye on them. 

Armin leans around Marco to check out our trajectory and shoots his hand up into the air, letting the officials know that we are adjusting our movements. Officials won't call the start until all coxswain's hands are down, signalling that all the crews are ready. 

“Marco, scull it with Jean’s oar, two strokes.” Armin mumbles.

Marco reaches back and grabs ahold of my oar and takes a couple of baby strokes with it to straighten us out. I do my best not to stare at the way Marco’s arm and back muscles flesh and move beneath his skin as he taps the oar into the water. He passes it back to me quickly and gives me a small but obviously nervous grin. I can tell his nerves are starting to get to him. I try and shoot him as reassuring a nod as I can, but Armin is already calling us back to attention, his hand dropping to tell the officials we're ready.

“Thanks. I think we’re about set, so let’s pass back the power.”

Without a second beat, Armin holds up his fist for Marco to pound it. I don’t even need to see Marco’s face to know that he’s smiling at the gesture. He pounds his fist against Armin’s and immediately turns to me, a big grin on his face to offer it back to me.

I smirk at him, move up, and pound it, before passing it along towards the bow. I watch as the official speaks into her megaphone again.

“All crews, at the ready.”

“This is it, everyone sit ready, at three quarter slide.” Armin instructs, his voice already lowering and growing firmer, preparing for the race ahead.

All eight of us move up the slide, squaring our oars and burying them in the water as we sit at three quarter slide.

The official holds up the flag, and I can feel the nervous quivers beginning to course through my body. Relax. It’s going to be okay. Marco’s right there, he’s focused, he’s _right_ _there_. He isn’t going anywhere. Just watch him and trust him. He isn’t going to lead us astray. Focus. Focus.

Breathe… Just breathe.

The flag drops and we all push off the catch, exerting our power in short, brief bursts through the start to get the boat up out of the water and moving. Armin is shouting commands at us, guiding us through the first thirty strokes. Telling us exactly how to push our power, how to control our strokes, how to raise the stroke rate and settle it down, and Marco is working fucking seamlessly at every command.

There’s a cacophony of sound around me as we move: splashing water, shouts of other coxswains, the hard, bruising click of the oars at the finish. But all I can focus on is the sound of my own breathing, the blood coursing through my veins, Armin’s firm voice pushing us, guiding us along.

But there in front of me is my center.

Marco’s strong, broad shoulders, the consistent, pulsating movement of his stroke, the way I know he’s fighting with every last ounce of strength he has. He’s fighting through every twinge of pain, every labored breath, and I know he’s fighting because he knows that this whole boat is doing the exact same thing. I know he’s fighting, because he knows that I am.

We’re about half a boat length ahead of four of the other boats, but the Shiganshina crew is doing its damn best to stay with us, only letting us slip ahead by a seat or less. I try my best not to look over at them. My job is to keep my focus in the boat, to never let up an ounce of my power. It’s Armin’s job to worry about the other boat. And the blond is on top of it, as he always is.

“We’re halfway through this race, everyone! Do **not** let up on that power! The boat beside is us trying to take you over. Do not let them take a single **inch**!”

I can feel the power pick up, pushing us along hard as the other boat tries to do the same, but Armin is not having _any_ of that nonsense.

“Good, guys. Keep those strokes _long_ and  _strong_. In two, give me a power ten, keep that stroke rate at a solid 30! One, two, power ten, **ONE**!”

The first stroke of the power ten surges us further ahead of the Shiganshina boat, but they aren’t willing to go down without a fight.

“ **Two! Three!** That’s it, fight it out, everyone! **Four!** ”

By now, I can hear Marco breathing: hard, frustrated, pained breaths as he thrusts through each stroke with as much power and pressure as he can possibly give. Even from my seat, I can hear Sasha in the bow, her light, high grunts sounding out at the finish of every stroke. Fight it out, rip them limb from limb, do not let them take us over.

“ **Five! Six! Seven!** ”

Every muscle in my body is starting to burn, fatigue threatening to hit me, but the mere sight of the Shiganshina boat trying to edge its way up next to us is enough to let the pain singe through me like lightning. The pain and ache jolts me and pushes me closer and closer to the edge until all I can focus on is the way my motions flow like fucking poetry with Marco’s.

“ **Eight! Nine!** ”

We’re almost there. The power ten is almost over, but I know that the power can’t die after it. We’ve passed the 750 meter mark, and we just have to make it through the last part. 

“ **Ten!** ”

Inch by grizzly, grueling inch we pull along, push it out, and fight our way tooth and nail to the finish line.

And in this moment, when my head is fuzzy, when my vision is blurry, when my hands sting, when my muscles feel like they might combust, might burn themselves straight off my bones, in this moment, Marco is all that I can think about.

I’m light-headed with the thought of him.

250 meters. And those bright, brown eyes of his.

200 meters. And the way he smiles and always seems to point it right at me.

150 meters. And the way his touch is always so gentle and tender against me. Intimate, like we’ve never known space between us.

100 meters. Armin’s voice is muffled to my ears now, and Levi’s words are pulsing through my head.

_You’ll be a better pair than you and Thomas ever were._

50 meters. The final strokes, the final push past the threshold. And the way that all I want to do is fight for him.

We’re past the finish line now and the motion of the boat stops as our muscles finally cease their effort. We soar through the water on momentum alone, other boats coursing past the finish line too. Rowers no longer rowing, we’re barely human anymore, sweating masses of pain, breathlessness, and exhaustion, basking in the pleasure of the finish. And all I can do, in this moment when my head is light and my body burns, is watch the way Marco pants out his relief. All I can do is think about how I would give him anything.

It scares me because right here, right now, I realize that I would give him every last ounce of fight and energy and struggle and _life_ that I have if he so much as asked it of me.

I don’t know if we’ve won, don’t know if we’ve beaten the Shiganshina crew, but I really don’t care anymore. Because suddenly, Marco is reclining back, lying down in the boat, his head resting atop my feet, his face beaming up at me. To my gaze, he might be upside down, but that grin is unmistakable. Ecstatic, relieved, a little bit manic, that grin is _just for me_.

My head is too light, my thoughts are too fuzzy to even think about stopping myself as I close my eyes, lean down and rest my sweaty forehead against his, the euphoria coursing through us both. We pant and shake and I can hardly even think as I cling to my oar handle and let myself bask in the feeling of him close to me.

I feel his hand reach up and touch my shoulder before it slides up to my nape and rests there firmly and I don’t even dare to open my eyes. I want to wall off this moment, freeze it in time, keep it and hide it away just for me. But I can’t. This moment can’t last and Bertholdt’s hand patting lightly against my back is an immediate, grim reminder of that fact. It’s enough to drag me back into reality and I sit up quickly, moving away from Marco almost instantly, his hand sliding from my neck.

Armin’s talking now and Marco is sitting up slowly and deliberately, and I can feel the boat turn even though I haven’t quite gotten back to the point of understanding Armin’s words yet. Suddenly, the boat is moving, and sounds are slowly returning to my ears, and I hear Armin instructing the bow six to row.

I stare ahead, and Marco cranes his head just enough to pass a glance to me. It isn’t smiling, but it’s focused, and it’s a look I’m not sure I want to understand. Soft and gentle yet determined and poignant. Given what I just did, I don’t know if I have it in me to ask any questions.

When Armin calls on us to row to cycle through the pairs on the way back to the dock, I’m grateful. Marco turns away from me and it’s as much as I can do to just follow him, to not think, to let my body move my muscle memory alone as we cruise back to the dock.

**::**

After Levi and Hanji come and chat with us as a boat, we’re free to hang around as much as we want. The novice boats and the quad still have to race, so we’ve got several hours to do a whole lot of nothing. I spend most of that time camped out under our crew’s tent, snacking on random food items that the coaches have laid out for us.

Marco and I don’t really speak, and I’m happy for that. After what happened at the finish line, I don’t know what I’m even supposed to say to him. Would he ask? Would he question it at all? What could he possibly have to say to me about it? I suppose it’s a small blessing that as I grab a couple snacks and settle down on the ground, I see him meander away from the tent alone, making his way towards some of the vendor tents littered throughout the regatta site.

I’m not sure how long he’s gone, but by the time he returns, both the novice men and novice women boats have launched and are heading up towards the race start. I glance up at him as he walks over, now toting a small bag from one of the vendors. I absently wonder what he bought. He looks down at me and shoots me a small grin, but I can tell that it’s forced. He doesn’t’ speak, opting to plop down beside me in silence and lie down. Haphazardly, he places the bag he’d brought over beneath his head and curls onto his side; it only takes a few minutes before I hear soft, quiet snores coming from his lips.

**::**

The novice men do pretty well in their race, and just from what I can tell they get 2nd place. The novice women, unfortunately, don’t place, coming in 4 th by only a hair. The quad’s race is the last one of the day, and I watch as the Trost quad soars across the finish line first, a good boat length ahead of the competition. It isn’t long before Armin has suddenly appeared under the tent holding a bag of gold medals.

Huh. I guess we won, after all. Suck it, Shiganshina.

I smile as he hands me mine and gestures to Marco, still passed out hard by my side. I shake my head and silently take Marco’s medal. I’ll give it to him later.

The boats are finally all making their way in, and Levi is calling for our attention, telling us to go ahead and get to work on taking down the tent, packing it up, and getting to work on the boats. I groan and stretch, before hesitantly placing my hand on Marco’s shoulder and giving him a brief shake.

He stirs for a moment, before jolting his head up, eyes halfway open as he mumbles.

“Hnnmm, blueberry… what?”

I can’t help but laugh at him, wondering what exactly he’d been dreaming. His eyes focus on me and steadily realize where he is, and he groans, flopping back down onto his back.

“Come on, Freckles, let’s get shit put up so we can get the hell out of here.” I tell him as Bertholdt comes over to us and offers his hand down to me to help me stand. Marco grumbles some more and stands reluctantly; I guess his perkiness is only reserved for the mornings. He grabs up his bag, claps me on the shoulder and follows diligently and a sudden wave of calmness flows over me. It’s as if what happened earlier at the finish line doesn’t need to be mentioned, as if it were inconsequential… as if it were normal. And I’m okay with that.

**::**

After a good couple hours of working, derigging, loading the boats, packing up the tent and tables, and securing all the equipment, we’re finally ready to go. By the time we’re all set, bags shoved back into Bertholdt’s car, the sun is setting. Bertholdt and Reiner both looking fucking exhausted and I can’t say that I blame them. Exhaustion has been slowly seeping its way into my body throughout the last hour. The only one who looks bright-eyed and bushy-tailed is Marco.

Closing the trunk firmly, Bertholdt stretches out and yawns, trudging towards the driver’s side begrudgingly. But Marco stops him with a brief hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, y’all look straight exhausted… I got a good long nap earlier, I don’t mind driving, if you guys wanna get some sleep or something?” Marco offers gently. The relief on Bertholdt’s face is freaking palpable.

“Oh, dear god, thank you. Reiner, we’re in the back, come on.”

Bertholdt passes the keys to Marco and wastes absolutely no time climbing into the back seat as Reiner shrugs and does the same on the other side. Which leaves me in the front passenger seat beside Marco. Okay then.

We hop in, get situated and buckled up, and Marco gets us on the road. A couple minutes into the drive, I hear Reiner shuffling around in the seats behind me.

“Yo, I’m unbuckling and lying down. Don’t crash, yeah?”

“I’ll be sure not to do that, Reiner.” Marco says before flicking his eyes to me briefly. “Hey, do you guys mind if we play music?”

Reiner yawns hard and stretches, settling himself down gently, resting his head on his boyfriend’s lap.

“Totally fine, I can sleep through anything. You two could start fucking and I probably wouldn’t notice… But please don’t, because then we might crash.”

The silence that falls over Marco and me is goddamn _stifling_. From the back, I hear the light slapping sound of Bertholdt’s hand coming into firm contact with the back of Reiner’s head.

“Shut up, you idiot.” Bertholdt hisses out under his breath, before turning his attention back to us. “Um. Thanks for driving, Marco.”

“…No problem…”

The silence that reigns over us for the next minute is so ridiculously uncomfortable. I hope Reiner is fucking pleased with himself. I’m sure he is, actually. My only saving grace is that Marco is finally the one who decides the silence must be broken. He clears his throat uneasily and glances over at me for a second.

“Get your iPod hooked up, let’s get some music going…”

“Sure,” I mumble, sliding the device from my pocket and hooking it into the system. There’s a moment when I stare at my playlists, silently debating which one might be best. What would he like? Or not like? Nothing really seems to bother Marco, so I opt for none of my playlists. I figure I can’t go wrong if I just let my whole library shuffle… At least we’ll get some variety.

We ride together in relative silence for a few minutes, letting the music play and fill the empty space between us. It takes a lot of effort on my part not to sing along with the words, and with each passing song, I wonder if Marco would mind all that much if I did. I also wonder if Marco knows that I’ve noticed the way he takes small breaks from the road to cast light glances my way. I wonder if he knows that I’m doing the same thing to him whenever I think he isn’t looking.

From the back seat, I hear the sound of soft snoring and I dare a quick glance back. Reiner is out for the count, balled up in the seat, his head still in Bertholdt’s lap, and Bertholdt isn’t much better. The brunet is conked the hell out, head resting against the window, mouth open, his hand frozen atop Reiner’s head where he must have fallen asleep stroking the blond’s hair.

Sometimes I envy them: I envy that comfort they have with each other. That easiness. That seamless, gentle love that seems to lace everything they do.

I turn my gaze back up front, staring out the windshield to the dark road ahead of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco gently rest his hand atop the gear shift. I can’t help but shift my gaze ever so slightly to look at his hand.

It would be so easy. It would be so very easy to just reach over and rest my hand on top of his, to grab his hand and lace our fingers together. But I can’t do that, and I know that. Right now, I envy the way Reiner can rest his head atop Bertholdt’s lap while I get to sit here and remind myself that I absolutely cannot just take Marco’s hand in mine.

The song that was playing begins to fade out, moving seamlessly into the soft, lilting guitar of "[Cinder and Smoke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSarZ7g1F-g)". The minute I realize what the song is, a smile plasters itself across my face. Marco must have noticed my expression too, because he wordlessly turns it up a couple of notches.

“I love this song.” I tell him softly, listening as the guitar eases its way into warm vocals.

Next thing I know, I’m singing. I hardly ever sing around other people. It’s something I only ever do in private, simply for me. But sitting in this car, with two idiots passed out asleep in the back seat, and Marco driving us through the darkness ahead, it feels okay. It feels safe. And I don’t know that I could stop myself if I tried. And so I let myself sing, my voice intonating smoothly with Iron & Wine’s vocalist.

Marco lets me sing too, not saying a word as I pitch along with the melody. I wish I didn’t know that he hasn't let his smile leave his face since the song started. But with my feet propped up on the dash, I let myself forget that this isn’t my norm. For a moment, I just let myself enjoy it. I let myself bask in this moment, as if this is the way that my life has always been. As if my life had always been this way, as if I were always meant to be here, right here by Marco’s side, cruising along the black highway miles. 

 _“Give me your hand, and take what you will tonight, I’ll give it as fast and high as the flame will rise. Cinder and smoke, some whispers around the trees. The juniper bends as if you were listening.”_ I croon out, feeling my shoulders begin to sway a little in my seat in time with the gentle beat.

I’m into the song, caught up in it; I always am when Iron & Wine comes on. But, as I’m singing, something pulls me from my reverie. It’s the sound of Marco… of Marco laughing.

It isn’t a loud laugh or anything, it isn’t a gut-wrenching laugh. It’s a small, airy chuckle that he breathes out into the over top of the music. But it’s still a laugh and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a laugh at my expense… I stop singing and look at him, suddenly nervous, my body beginning to tense, recalling back all the looseness I had allowed it during the song. He was laughing at me, wasn’t he?

“What?” I ask him, albeit a bit demanding in my tone, but he just shakes his head and chuckles again.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, genuinely confused. Marco shrugs.

“Well, you row, you paint, you’re smart, and you apparently sing too. It doesn’t seem fair for us plebes.”

He flicks his gaze over to me again and the lightness in his eyes is enough to put all my nerves at ease. One glance at me and I feel my muscles relaxing again. I smile, closing my eyes and shrugging at him.

“Nah…” I mumble noncommittally, “I do lots of things at a mediocre level… Don’t really do a lot at good levels.”

Marco shakes his head no, still allowing his eyes to dance between myself and the road.

“I don’t think that.” He tells me matter-of-factly. “I think you do a lot of things really well.”

I cock my head at his words, meeting his gaze whenever he lets himself glance away from the road. I hadn’t expected that… And the way he keeps looking at me twists my gut into knots.

I want to reply to him, but I can’t really seem to find exactly what words to use. Sentences and aimless thoughts just keep getting jumbled up in my head. There’s too much I want to say to him. Too much that I want to spill from my lips… There’s too much I want to say and I know if I tried, my words would simply entangle themselves along my tongue and wrap their way around my teeth.

I want to tell Marco that he’s beautiful. I want to tell him that the softness of his gaze when he looks at me makes me burn deep down within my chest. I want to tell him how _good_ his very presence makes me feel. I want to tell him how I’m so fucking _angry_ at him because he has no right to be this way to me. He has no right to make me feel so goddamn good. I want to tell him I hate him because it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that how I feel for Marco reminds me so much of how I felt for _him_. But I want to tell Marco that I could never hate him in a million years either. I could never hate a soul that kind, that bright and brilliant.

I want to grab his hand. I want to twine my fingers up in his. I want him to drag his hands along my sides, sweep them along my nape. I want him to smile at me through hazy, happy eyes; I want him to look at me in all the same ways I look at him. I want to occupy his every thought, like he does mine.

But I don’t do anything at all. I don’t touch him. I don’t say all the things I want to say.

All I manage to say is,

“Oh…”

He doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation though, doesn’t seem to notice my inner conflict and turmoil. Instead, I watch him laugh again, a different kind of laugh, like he’s just thought of something funny. He wedges his phone out of his pocket, careful to keep his eyes trained on the road and to keep the hand on the steering wheel steady. He flicks it open, and I just barely see him open up youtube and type something into it.

“Here, hook me up, you wanna hear someone sing bad, you just wait.”

He holds his phone up a little so I can plug the auxiliary cord into the headphone jack as he scrolls through a couple videos and finally selects one.

The song starts playing quickly, a light, fast and somewhat twangy guitar melody. I cock my head a little, listening to it. It’s really familiar.

Then it hits me.

“Is this… Oh, god, Marco… No.”

“Oh, god, Jean, yes.”

“Please, no.”

But I’m too late. He’s already turned up the volume and is starting to sing along (poorly) to [Dolly Parton’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGEubdH8m0s) sweet, lilting voice.

_“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jooooleeeeeene. I’m begging of you, please don’t take my maaaaaan.”_

“Marco…” I say, a bit more sternly, trying my goddamn hardest not to smile. But he doesn’t pay me any mind.

_“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jooooleeeeeene. Please don’t take him just because you caaaaaaaan. Your beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, with ivory skin and eyes of emerald greeeeeen.”_

“Marco, please.”

Absently, I wonder what Reiner and Bertholdt might think if they were to wake up to this. Their little metalhead hearts might shrivel up.

“You know you love it, Jean.” Marco taunts, winking over at me as he sways his shoulders and sings along. I make a point to not even acknowledge his assertion.

_“He talks about you in his sleep and there’s nothing I can do to keep from crying he calls your name **Jeannnyyyyy**.”_

Oh, this bastard is pushing it. But honestly, despite his ridiculousness, despite his horrid singing voice, I can’t help the way the corners of my mouth keep trying to turn upwards. Suddenly, Marco flings his hand over to me, grabbing ahold of my forearm firmly and giving it a little shake and releasing me.

“Harmonize with me, maggot!”

And you know, at this point, I think I’m past fighting it. I let out a laugh, and before I know it, I’ve joined in with him, singing out this twangy bullcrap with Marco like it’s the easiest thing in the world for us.

_“You could have your choice of men, but I could never love again, he’s the only one for me, Joleeeeeeeene.”_

I laugh as Marco and I keep singing. But the next thing I know, as the chorus comes back around, Marco reaches out to grab me again, this time taking ahold of my hand. It’s obviously supposed to be silly and melodramatic as he wails along (hooooorribly) with Dolly, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. For the second time, he’s replaced the name “Jolene” in the song with _my_ name, and he’s still holding onto my hand as he sings. What in the hell is happening right now?

Maybe it’s best I just don’t question this. Maybe it’s best I just let myself enjoy the feeling of his fingers wrapped around my hand, and the way he goofily sings out my name: happy and silly and lost in the moment. 

But eventually the song fades out, and Marco releases my hand without a second though, scooping up his phone and typing something else into the search bar.

I can’t deny the fact that all I want to do is smack that phone from his hand and reclaim in hand with my own.

But he’s focused, scrolling through videos and finding a song he wants to play. So I let him, curious, and hoping perhaps that once he’s picked, he might touch me unrestrained again. He finally picks one and I’m hoping it will be good, something we could sing together again, something… something… I don’t know… Something for us.

I’m wrong, though. I’m so wrong, and even I can’t help but laugh as the song starts playing. After the first couple lyrics of “[Land Down Under](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfR9iY5y94s)”, I decide I’ve got to put a stop to his madness. With determined swiftness, I yank the auxiliary cord out of his phone.

“Oh, no, sir.” I tell him, hooking the cord back into my iPod.

“What?! Nooooo. Come on! It’s Men at Work!” He pleads with me.

“Nuh uh, young man, you have officially lost DJ privileges.”

“You can’t tell me what to do! You aren’t my real dad!”

I can’t stop the loud, boisterous laugh that bursts from my lips at his comment, and all I can do is look at him as he glances back at me, all smiles and happiness and comfort and ease. And, maybe I’m wrong, but he looks almost proud to have made me laugh so hard. I shake my head at him, muttering an affectionate “idiot” under my breath as I do. I pull up my library again and shuffle it, closing it before I even see what song it’s picked for us.

“[Heart’s a Mess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpN1j8R5lZ8)” starts playing steadily, and there’s a moment when I’m ready to yank the iPod from my pocket and skip it. This song is too much. It’s too personal, it’s too close, it reminds me too much of myself and Marco that I can hardly stand it. But as I’m reaching back to grab it, I falter, and decide that no, I’ll let it play. Because at best, perhaps he’d realize what it was. At best, perhaps he would understand its meaning to me. At worse, I tell him I just really like the song. So I let it play, its beat throbbing through the speakers, Gotye’s voice soothing. And it isn’t long before I see Marco absently begin to move a bit with the beat and hum softly with the words. His eyes are soft again, relaxed and easy as he stares out at the road.

“I like this song.” He tells simply, turning to look at me for a brief moment.

He sets his hand back down on the gear shift and I can’t help but wonder if it’s an invitation. But I can’t ask him. So all I say is,

“Me too.”

**::**

We spend the rest of the ride like this; easy and soft, Bertholdt and Reiner still asleep soundly in the backseat, me riding along the road with Marco by my side. And as we let the music play, as my iPod plays too many songs that remind me of Marco, I sit and pretend that this is how my life was meant to be.

Marco lets my music play, lets it fill the space around us. He sings to some of the songs. And sometimes he asks me to sing again.

And I do, because he asked me to.

As we steadily approach the campus, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I’m not ready for this to end. I’m not ready to leave the car, not ready to sleep alone in my bed. I’m not ready for these moments to end, these moments that had felt so private, that had been so insignificant, but that had felt full.

I’m not ready to leave.

But I have to. And so does he.

So we park, get out, and trudge our way back to the dorms.

I walk by Marco’s side in silence, following Reiner and Bertholdt unquestioningly. They’re holding hands and I can’t help but feel that spark of envy again. Because Marco’s hand is there. It’s right there, so close to my own as we walk and it would be so easy to grab ahold of. But I won’t and I don’t.

As the sidewalk begins to split, one part forking towards my dorm, and the other forking towards Marco’s, I move to follow my roommates as they heads to the right. But as I do, I feel a hand grab my arm, Marco’s hand, gentle but firm as it always is. He grabs me and halts me, turning me around without a word. Merely as a muffled noise behind me, I can hear the entrance of my dorm opening and closing, Reiner and Bertholdt obviously not caring enough to wait for me.

And now it’s just us. Marco with his hand still on my arm and soft expression on his face.

“I almost forgot,” He says, suddenly digging around in the bag slung around his shoulder. “I got you something at the race.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He pulls out the small plastic bag from early and hands it to me.

I’m sure I have quite a look of surprise on my face, as I dig into the bag and pull out the soft item.

“Man, you really didn’t have to…”

It’s a shirt, I realize as I unfold it. On the front is a detailed blueprint of a racing shell.

“Read the back,” Marco tells me, and I can tell he’s trying his damnedest to conceal his smile.

I turn the shirt so I can see the back and the minute I do, I let out an exasperated laugh.

The back of the shirt, in big bold letters says:

**Top Ten Reasons Why Rowing is Better Than Sex**

**10\. It isn't creepy or weird if you row with minors.**  
 **9\. You don’t have to worry about where your oar has been before.**  
 **8\. Two Words: “Cox Box”**  
 **7\. You can row with up to seven people at a time.**  
 **6\. Your oar will never give you an S.T.D. (Except for Crabs).**  
 **5\. Hot rowers give “Head Races” a new name.**  
 **4\. Let’s face it, it’s hot.**  
 **3\. When rowing, you have a coach to tell you what you did wrong.**  
 **2\. After a good, hard row, _everybody_ is satisfied.**  
 **1\. In rowing, the catch is aggressive, the hands quick, the slide smooth, the drive powerful, and the oar is _always_ hard.**

I can feel my face getting hot and red, and I can’t really conceal my giggles. I’m doing my best not to laugh too loudly; it’s late and I’m sure someone might bitch and moan if I just started to cackle outside the dorms at night. I look up at Marco.

“Damn, Marco. I love it.”

He smiles and bites his lip gently, doing his best to catch my eyes. 

“Yeah, I thought you might.” He says lightly with a small shrug.

“You didn’t have to get me this, you know?”

“I know. I wanted to.”

“Thank you… really, I love it.”

Marco nods at me and glances down at the ground, scuffing his feet a little, and I wonder idly if he’s trying to stall heading back to his room. If he is, I wouldn’t blame him, I’m doing the same thing. As I look at his feet, the shirt he’d gotten me now slung over my arm, I remember the extra medal sitting in my pocket with a snap.

“Oh, shit!” I say, digging in my pocket and pulling it out. “Damn, dude, I almost forgot to give you your medal.”

He smiles as he takes it, pulling it from the plastic and draping it over his head. He lets it rest against his chest, lifting it just a little so he can read it better. He drags his fingers lightly over the bold letters that read “Shiganshina Invitational: First Place” and looks back up at me.

“You know, I’ve won a good number of medals. But I think this one is probably my favorite.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, tilting my head a bit. Marco just shrugs and glances away.

“It’s the first medal I've won with you.”

He doesn't say "the first medal I've won in your boat", he doesn't say "with this team". He says "the first medal I've won with  _you_ " and I'm almost at a loss. I don't know what that means, I don't know if it means what I think it might. I'm sure it probably doesn't.

But for once, Marco isn’t looking at me. There's a shyness in his actions I'm not used to seeing from him. For once, it isn’t me trying to avoid eye contact. It’s him. And maybe I’m imagining it in the dark, but I think I see the faintest hint of red on his cheeks. I don’t hesitate before placing my hand on his shoulder and giving him a soft pat, garnering his attention and shooting him a silent smile.

Marco catches my look with ease before he shines his grin right back at me. He reaches his hand out to grab my shoulder and pulls a bit. Wordlessly, he tugs me into a brief, tight hug.

And okay, this isn't what I was expecting, but I'm okay with it. 

But it’s over before I realize it, over before I even have time to return it. But Marco’s still standing close to me, our chests only a few inches apart.

And he’s smiling at me, like he always does. He’s smiling that beaming grin that seems like it’s only meant for me. 

"Goodnight, Jean.” Marco says softly, fiddling idly with the medal slung around his neck.

“Goodnight, Marco.” I tell him, now gripping the shirt he’d gotten me in my hands.

 _Stay with me. Let me stay with you tonight._  

“Text me tomorrow?” He asks, as he always does.

“I will.” I promise, as I always do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, the **Ten Reasons Why Rowing Is Better Than Sex** shirt is an actual shirt that they sell at regattas. I actually have one. I changed the wording on a couple of the points to make them less creepy though (the rowing with minors one always bugged me)... 
> 
> Songs mentioned in this chapter are linked in the text, but here's a brief list with the artists.  
> "Laser Cannon Deth Sentence" by Dethklok  
> "Paint the Rainbow Grey" by Kari Rueslatten  
> "Cinder and Smoke" by Iron & Wine  
> "Jolene" by Dolly Parton  
> "Land Down Under" by Men at Work  
> "Heart's a Mess" by Gotye
> 
> Thanks for your patience with this chapter, guys! It was a bit longer than the last one, so took a while to get all the editing and final touches made before I could send it to my awesome beta. 
> 
> Thanks so much for your continued support of the fic! Thanks for reading and commenting; you're all so awesome. 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and could always use some more mutuals, you lovely people.  
> (Oh, and if any of you are wondering, this story is tagged as "fic: steady to the catch" or "fic: sttc" on tumblr)


	11. Jumping the Slide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//Recollect me darling raise me to your lips_   
> _Two undernourished egos four rotating hips_   
> _Hold on to me tightly I'm a sliding scale_   
> _Can't endure then you can't inhale//_
> 
> Inertia Creeps || Massive Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No terms need to be defined in this chapter!  
> Also this chapter is rather long... Just over 10,000 words, wow. Enjoy!

I’m honestly not really sure who first recommended that we do a movie night, but I’m pretty sure I want to blame Reiner for it. So I’m going to. So this is really all Reiner’s fault (but Connie, Sasha, and Bertholdt are  _not_ off the hook either).

Okay, let me back up. 

After the first regatta, life more or less goes back to normal. Practices resume, classes go about as they are wont to do, and Marco and I hang out more and more. I’m happy for the normalcy, or at least, as close to normalcy as I can manage. Because despite our easy time together, I still feel stuck and conflicted about Marco in more ways than I really have time to list. I’m stuck waffling between a comfortable friendship, an extremely stressful attraction to him, an exceedingly unsettling sense of comfort whenever I’m around him, and a tenuous grip on restraint whenever I’m in his presence.

As you can imagine, things in my head have been a little chaotic. But I suppose it’s okay… Because at the end of the day, putting aside my attraction and my constant attempts not to be awkward or weird with Marco, I’m happy that at the very least I can look at him and know that he’s my friend. It’s more than I ever had with Daniel…

But anyway, things are pretty normal, as far as daily life goes. But at some point, one of my idiot friends decides that we all need to have a movie night together. Now, I know what you’re thinking: a movie night? That doesn’t sound so bad. Why are you so bitter about a movie night, Jean? Why are you such a drama queen, Jean? Why do you hate fun, Jean? Well, you can stop those thoughts right now. 

I have no problem with having a movie night with my friends. I have no problem spending time with Marco in a dark room watching movies when I have my friends around to act as buffers. In fact, I had actually agreed to the movie night because it seemed like the safest way to get to spend an evening with Marco. So long as my friends would be present as well, a movie night should be  _no freaking problem_ .

But “a movie night with friends” isn’t what freaking happens.

Despite the fact that my so-called-friends were the ones who first proposed the idea, and despite the fact that they (purposefully) orchestrated it so that it would take place in my dorm,  _they_ are the ones who fucking bail on the whole damn thing.

Yeah, you read that right.

Like I said, I can’t really remember who first proposed the idea of the movie night, but I’m sure it was either Reiner or Connie, so, at the very least, I’m going to blame Reiner. But, really, whoever first suggested it is irrelevant now; what really matters is the fact that they all fucking  _bailed_ on me.

It’s a goddamn conspiracy and I know it.

Connie is the first to duck out, telling me with a half-hearted shrug that he and Sasha want to have a ‘private’ movie night and that – and I’m quoting him here – “The gettin’s good, Jean, sorry.”.

That horndog, bald-headed little  _traitor_ .

Reiner and Bertholdt ditch me next and they don’t even  _try_ to conceal the fact that they’re extremely pleased with themselves. They’re just so damn pleased about the prospect of leaving me alone with Marco on Saturday night.

As soon as I tell Reiner that Connie and Sasha bailed on the movie night, Reiner comes and sits on the couch beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder. He’s doing his goddamn best to keep his smile off his face, and he speaks to me with mock seriousness.

“Oh  _shoot,_ I totally  _forgot_ . Bertl and I were gunna visit home this weekend. So I guess it’ll just be you and Marco. Oh  _shucks_ …  _Gosh-diddly-dangit_ , friend, I’m sorry.”

I’m going to kill him.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I deadpan back to him, doing my very best not to slap that annoying little smirk off his smug face. “Don’t you love me?”

“Sugar, we’re doing this  _because_ we love you.”

“You are a lying liar who lies. You know that, right?”

“Nooooo.” He says, shaking his head, still trying (and failing) to keep his face serious and smirk-free. “You should be thanking me, Jeanbo.”

I’m going to hurt him. He’s really asking for it. I do my best to shrug and look as nonchalant as I can.

“Fine then, I’ll just cancel it.” I tell him indignantly.

“Hah!” Reiner barks, “Good luck explaining to Marco  _why_ you want to cancel.”

Reiner brings his fingers up to his ear, miming a phone as he puts on a fake-French accent.

“ _Oh, hon-hon, sorry Freckled-Babe, I gotta cancel cause I wanna bone you so super hard and being in a dark room alone with you is too much temptation._ ”

“I swear to god, Reiner…” I hiss between my teeth. He’s right though. I honestly can’t tell Marco why I don’t want to be stuck in a dark room alone with him, and as much as I hate to admit it, even  _if_ I manage to come up with a good excuse, I’ve never been that good of a liar…

Reiner gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on, man, just enjoy the night, yeah?”

It’s not like I have much of a choice at this point. Like I said, this is a goddamn conspiracy.

**::**

As the week ticks by, I honestly am still considering canceling on Marco, or at least telling him that we should reschedule it so that everyone (ie, my goddamn buffers) could come. But I know that I’m not going to be able to implement a believable excuse, and if I try and tell him to reschedule, Marco will probably just shrug and say something along the lines of “screw ‘em, it’s their loss”. Realistically, I don’t think I can seamlessly get out of this without raising flags, so I’m just going to have to tough it out.

It’s just one night. I can do this. I am not some blushing teenager who can’t handle a couple hours alone with a guy, no matter how attractive he might be. Everything is going to be fine.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Oh god, I’m screwed.

**::**

Marco arrives right on time with an enthusiastic knock on my door, the punctual bastard. As I move to open the door for him, I try desperately to quell the constant nervous fluttering that seems to be a permanent part of my gut.

This isn’t a goddamn date and I need to get it together. It’s just two friends, hanging out, and watching movies together. It’s  _nothing_ . I just need to be freaking  _normal_ for once my life.

I steel myself as best I can and open the door. There Marco stands, all freckles and white teeth bared in a wide, excited smile. His hair is tousled, and he’s got a baggy tshirt and a faded pair of sweatpants on. I’m not sure how someone makes ‘disheveled’ look so smooth and seamless, but somehow, he pulls it off. I notice quickly that he’s got a small tote bag in one hand and a blanket and a pillow tucked up under his other arm. Oh god, is this a fucking sleep over or something? What is happening here?

It takes me a moment before I realize that I’ve just been standing in the doorway and blocking his entrance. I shake my head quickly and stand aside, letting him pass through. He doesn’t even wait before making himself at home, setting his bag and blankets down and toeing off his shoes.

“Damn, these suites are  _awesome_ …” he says to me, his eyes scanning around the room, gazing at the kitchenette, around the living room, and down the short hallway with the doors to our separate bedrooms, “It’s like a freaking apartment…”

I realize then that this is actually the first time he’s seen the inside of my dorm. The most he’s ever seen of it has been from out in the hall, and suddenly, I feel even more self-conscious than I already did. Is the place clean enough? Is the furniture arranged alright? How do our posters look up on the walls? And holy shit, why do I even  _care_ ? I have literally never given two shits about the way this suite looks until this very minute. I opt for a small shrug of my shoulders, desperate to shed myself of the sudden onslaught of unwanted, frivolous thoughts.

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice.” I mumble, bringing a hand up to scratch idly at my nape. “The walls can be a little uh…  _thin_ … sometimes…”

Marco looks perplexed by my comment and I make a point to flick my head towards the door that has pictures of Reiner and Bertholdt plastered all over it. It only takes him a moment more before the realization hits him.

“Oh…” his eyes widen suddenly to almost cartoonish proportions, “OHH.”

“Yeeeeeah…”

“There’s four bedrooms though, right?”

“Hah, man, that fourth one hasn’t been touched since move-in day.” I laugh back to him. I bite my lip, debating silently whether or not I should say what I want to say. I shrug, avoid his gaze, and spit it out. “So you know, if you ever wanna crash here or something…”

_Why did I say that??_

But Marco just smiles amicably in response, before his grin abruptly widens to his ears.

“Wait, so you have an extra mattress??” He asks excitedly.

“Uh, yeah, why?”

He holds a hand up.

“I’m not even gunna ask how those two giants manage to fit on one twin bed, but hey! Perfect for us!”

I cock my eyebrow. What in the fuck is he talking about? Perfect for  _us_ ??

“Excuse me?” I ask uneasily.

He suddenly turns and heads down to the last door in the line, the only door without any pictures or signs or posters on it. He points at it.

“This it?”

I nod at him and he plows forward into it. I hear some shuffling from inside the room, a couple of grunts, and a sudden  **thunk** before I finally dare to walk down the hall. I peer into the room, trying to see just what the hell he’s doing in there. But as I move to stand in the doorway, I’m almost run over a mattress, stood up on its side, as Marco shoves it along the ground and out of the empty bedroom. I just barely dodge it as he slides it out.

“What in the ever living  _hell_ are you doing??” I ask incredulously, watching as he continues to struggle and push the mattress along the hallway and towards the living room.

“Just trust me…” he grunts out, giving the mattress one final shove and plopping it down on the floor of the living room, right in front of the TV. I can only stare as Marco turns around, focusing on the couch, and suddenly starts to yank the cushions off it… starts to yank  _all_ the cushions off it, what the fuck?

“Why exactly are you destroying my couch?”

The look he gives me is one of sheer disbelief.

“What? You can’t tell me you’ve never done this.”

“Done  _what_ ? Harm a perfectly innocent couch? What did it ever do to you?”

“No, smartass. Make a palette.”

“For what exactly?”

“…Movies? Jean, you can’t be serious… You really never watched movies on a cushion palette?”

“No… I was blessed, we had couches…”

“Jean, we need to have a talk about your childhood. Mostly about whether or not you had one.”

“…I’m pretty sure I came out of the womb as a crotchety 70 year old…” I mumble to him, glancing between his grinning face and the mess of cushions and mattress at his feet. He nods at me.

“It explains so much…” Marco says to himself with a laugh. “Well, I only brought one blanket, do you have some others?”

Blankets? Really? He cannot be serious. Is this a fucking cuddle party or something? Did I miss the memo? Because this is not okay. Goddamnit, Marco.

He’s still looking at me expectantly and so, with a brief nod, I retreat to my bedroom and return with a couple of throws slung over my arm. Marco takes them from me without question spreads the larger of the two I gave him, as well as his own blanket, out across his mattress/cushion palette/abomination. The smaller blanket of mine he simply wraps around his shoulders as he plops down onto the mattress and crosses his legs beneath himself. He looks up at me like a child might: excited, expectant, and so utterly fucking  _pleased_ with himself.

“I hope you’re happy.” I tell him.

“I am content, yes.” He says calmly. “Go pick a movie, grandpa. I brought a few over, or we can watch something of yours if you want.”

With a brief shake of my head and an exasperated laugh, I begin to rummage through the small tote bag he’d brought along. There are only a few DVDs stuffed in there, along with a couple bags of microwave popcorn. Idly, I glance over the DVD titles:  The Descent ,  El Orfanato ,  Silent Hill ,  The Strangers …

“Marco, these are literally all horror movies.”

Marco just shrugs.

“I’m a fan, sue me.”

“Wow.” I laugh.

“What?” he asks, almost surprised by my comment.

“Nothing, just… didn’t picture you as a horror fan.”

“Why not?” He sounds almost offended.

“I dunno, you’re just so… sweet and innocent, you know?”

That earns me a laugh; a curt but loud laugh that he barks out as if to tell me he’s surprised by what I’d said.

“Hah! ‘Innocent’… If you only knew, my friend.”

_Jesus fucking Christ, Marco._

He can’t just say shit like that. I can already feel my face flushing and I make a point not to look up at him, staring down pointedly at the DVDs in my hands. I clear my throat, hoping to god that my face isn’t as red as it feels.

“O-okay…” I stammer, desperate to change the subject, “How about  El Orfanato ? I haven’t seen that one.”

“It’s in Spanish with subtitles, that okay? It’s  _really_ good, though.”

“Fine by me. Last I checked, I can read, so I should be fine.”

“Reading already? You’re getting to be a big boy, Jean. So grown up for a 70 year old.”

I can’t help but smile at that, turning my head to glance at him as he grins right back at me. A couple of months ago, I had done literally everything in my power to avoid Marco, even going so far as to be cruel to him. And now, I’m sitting here, wondering how I ever had it in me to snub him. My behavior is a total 180 and frankly, despite all my inner conflict, I like it. He ribs me like he’s known me for years, and deep down, I feel like I’ve known him ages longer than the short time we’ve actually known each other. And really, I think I’m okay with that.

It’s still hard sometimes, to just look at him. To row behind him. To laugh with him and joke with him. It’s hard to feel him wrap a tight arm around my neck and side-hug me, or rough house me. Because that little tug inside my chest is still there; that tug that tells me to push him down against the ground, straddle his hips, and let my tongue drag across the muscle and sinew of his neck. It’s that little tug that tells me to reach over and take his hand in mine when we’re singing together in the car. It’s the tug that tells me I should press my lips against his like familiar lovers would, to sit close to him like space is something we never needed.

That tug is still there. Maybe it always will be.

But I suppose it’s tolerable. It isn’t easy, and I wouldn’t say it’s exactly pleasant, just having to sit here and pretend to be his buddy, his pal, his super hetero friend. But I can do it, because I have to. And I will, because I want to. After only a couple months of knowing Marco, I still wonder how I ever managed to be cruel to him, how I ever managed to avoid him, to ignore that bright face, splattered with speckled stars.

He may not want me like I want him, but his friendship is good enough. I don’t think I could go back to ignoring him even if I tried.

Lost in my thoughts, I force myself back to the present. I quickly get the DVD into the Playstation and get it playing. As I move towards the couch, Marco stops me, his hand reaching up and grabbing my own without an ounce of hesitation. And I’m taken aback: what is he doing?

He just smiles up at me.

“Lights off!” He instructs.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Lying on the floor on a cushion palette with the lights off? Hell to the no. Look, I’m happy for his friendship, and I’m pretty good at restraining myself, but that’s a bit much. I’m about to tell him no, absolutely not, but I think he senses my reluctance. He pouts quickly, putting on his best pleading look, staring up at me pathetically.

“Can’t watch a horror movie with the lights onnnnnn.” He whines.

“Ugh, fiiine.” I groan at him, moving and flicking off the lights. The room is quickly bathed in darkness, save for the ambient glow of the television. I walk back towards the palette in the darkness, careful to make sure I’m stepping carefully in the dark. The light of the TV just barely illuminates Marco’s face, and as I approach, I can just barely make out his expression. It’s soft and excited, waiting and ready and eager, like he always is. It takes all my effort to look away from him, letting my eyes rest on the palette instead.

I point down at it, desperate to segue my focus away from Marco.

“I’m not sitting on that.”

“Aww, sourpuss, why not?”

“I will sit on the couch like a civilized human being, thank you.”

“With no cushions?” He asks me, laughing.

I don’t respond to that, leering at him.

“Aw, why do you hate fun? Do you need to talk about your childhood? I’m here for you, man.” Marco says with mock-sympathy. I roll my eyes at him.

“Oh, hardy-har-har,” I jibe back at him, now plopping myself determinedly on the hard, cushionless couch. I can’t help the slight grimace I make as I notice how uncomfortable it is. It would figure that Marco notices it too.

“Comfy up there?”

“Oh my, yes. It’s like sitting on a cloud.” I tell him through gritted teeth. I adjust myself once more so that the bones of my ass aren’t pressing hard against the wooden slats of the couch frame. Marco just laughs at me.

“Yeah, sure looks great.” Marco then starts to lie down, sprawling out across the mattress and the cushions on the floor dramatically. “It’s just sooooo miserable down here.” He laughs at that, mostly at himself, clearly amused by his own sarcasm.

“Oh, sure, laugh it up, you child.”

“Just press play, you moron.” He tells me with a shake of his head, turning his glance back at me once more. “If you get tired of suffering, let me know. I  _might_ consider sharing my majestic palette.”

“Made out of  _my_ couch cushions and  _my_ mattress.”

“Ah-ah,  _spare_ mattress.” He corrects.

**::**

To my credit, I make it about 45 minutes into the first movie until my body finally decides that it’s had enough of trying to recline on un-cushioned wood. Marco is sprawled out in front of me on his stomach, feet close to the couch, his eyes trained up on the television. With a sigh, I resolve that it might be time to simply admit defeat. Slowly, I lower myself down to the palette to Marco’s right. He cranes his head back to look at me, a smug little smirk on his face.

“Finally giving in to temptation, huh?” He asks.

I can only grumble noncommittally back at him. At first, I opt to simply sit on the palette, not letting myself lie down, my back resting against the base of the couch, Marco’s feet to my left. But I watch as Marco makes a point to scooch further to his left, leaving me plenty of room to lie down on my stomach beside him if I want to…

I probably shouldn’t… Keeping my distance is really my best option at this point and I know it. But Marco suddenly turns his head back again to look at me. There’s a small, tender grin on his face, as he pats the spot to his right invitingly, wordlessly offering me the place by his side if I want it.

And I do want it… I just know that I probably shouldn’t take it. With a bite of my lip, I try not to think about the shoulds and the should-nots, as I slowly shift and crawl my way along the palette to tentatively settle on my stomach beside him.

I do my very best to pay attention to the rest of the movie, I really do. But Marco’s constant warmth beside me is invading all my thoughts. The vague but constant touch of his elbow against my own is enough to distract me, pull me out of focus until the subtitles are nothing but meaningless white blobs at the bottom of the screen. The movie has been good so far – creepy and entertaining and original – but the last few minutes have been lost on me… And it’s because of Marco.

The main character in the movie is in a dark room right now, knocking on a wall and glancing over her shoulder. And oh, sweet Jesus, spooky children have begun to congregate behind her and are creeping their way closer towards her as she knocks. I wish I had bother to read the subtitles about this part, but oh well, I guess. A sudden, loud crescendo of music bursts as one of the ghost-children grabs ahold of the protagonist’s shoulder. That alone earns a startle from both me and Marco, and Marco flings his hand over to grab ahold of my bicep.

I try to laugh it off, as does he, the both of us halfheartedly mocking our own skittishness. But Marco’s hand still hasn’t left my arm… I turn my head away quickly, focusing on the screen, and hoping to god he’ll just let go. He only lingers for another moment, but he still lingers, before he slowly withdraws his hand away and tucks it underneath his chin. It’s only once he’s taken it away that I wish he’d left it there.

**::**

It’s gotta be late.

Marco and I are in the middle of our third movie of the night, and I can steadily feel my eyelids growing heavier and heavier with every blink. To my left, I can hear soft, even breathing, and I dare to take a glance over. Marco’s head is lolled atop his folded hands, his hair hanging down into his face, his mouth open ever so slightly as his breath huffs out in small, even puffs.

He’s asleep, so I figure it’s okay if I just look at him… only for a moment. Resting my own head down atop my hands, I let my gaze rest on him. This is the first time I’ve really been able to just  _look_ at him, focused and uninterrupted, and I like it. He looks… so good, his face calm and peaceful. His skin is dark and dusty, bathed in the soft light of the television, splattered with freckles like stars that could give the night sky a run for its money.

I have to stop thinking like this… because this kind of thinking never gets me anywhere. But I just can’t take my eyes off him. Face relaxed and calm, warm and welcoming, and I could really get used to staring at him. But I can’t let myself get used to this, and I know it. I try and tell myself that this is something I will never have, and that I need to quit looking at him like I might ever have that chance.

As I’m watching him, I notice his eyelashes beginning to flutter. This should be my cue to look away, to break my gaze, but I just can’t. I don’t  _want_ to break it. I want to look at him, I want to look at those dark lashes that stand out just so against his olive skin. I want to look at him, because he’s beautiful.

Stop, Jean.

God, I have to fucking stop this. Of course he’s beautiful. He’s beautiful and he isn’t mine. He’s beautiful like Daniel always was, and I know I  _have_ to stop.

Steadily, his eyes begin to flutter open, and I still haven’t found the sense to look away. As his eyes open, I expect him to jump when he sees me, to start and move away from me like I’m a threat. But he doesn’t. His eyes open easily and he simply smiles softly at me. His brown orbs are gentle and glistening from his short sleep and I still can’t look away.

“Hi.” He murmurs tenderly.

“Hi…” is all that I can manage to whisper back.

“Time is it?” Marco mumbles, sleep still lacing his voice.

Absently, I glance at my watch.

“Almost 3 am…”

“Mmm.” He sighs, rolling his shoulders a little and nuzzling his head back down against his hands. “S’ late… I’ll head out in the morning.”

There’s a short moment, after he says it, that his eyes focus a little bit more on me, his brow furrowing as he stammers out his next sentence.

“If that’s cool?” He asks me, uneasy.

I nod slowly at him, settling my head down on my own hands.

“Of course.”

**::**

I fall asleep quickly after Marco, and when morning comes around, we’re up and moving wordlessly together. We clean up the palette, replace the cushions on the couch, and drag the mattress back into the extra bedroom. With the blankets folded up and the movies put away, it’s almost like last night never happened. And I don’t know if I’m glad about that or not.

Marco runs a hand through his messed up hair: a valiant effort, but useless to combat the way his locks are all askew from sleep. I smile at him as he gathers up his things, tucking his blankets and pillow under his arm and scooping up his DVDs.

I walk with him towards the door and open it for him. He takes a couple steps out into the hall before he turns around and stares at me, still standing in the open doorway. He bites his lip and looks away, before exhaling quickly and bringing his gaze back up to me.

“You wanna go get breakfast?” He asks with a small huff.

“Yeah.” I say, unable to stop the grin that’s already making itself at home on my face.

He drops his stuff back in my room as I grab my keys and the two of us head out, all tousled hair and baggy sweatpants.

**::**

Connie and Sasha are already in the refectory by the time Marco and I get there, and I make a point to avoid Connie’s suggestive eyebrow waggles as we enter. As soon as Marco has turned his attention towards the breakfast line, I raise my middle finger and mime a silent “Fuck You” to the two of them. Connie just laughs, and Sasha lifts her hands into the shape of a heart and pouts at me. Traitorous fuckers.

Reiner and Bertholdt return from home on Sunday evening, and the two of them do nothing but act innocent and make idle comments about how they “certainly hope I had a  _great_ weekend”.

Dear Diary, it’s definitely time to murder my roommates. Maybe jail is worth it.

The rest of the week passes uneventfully, and our second race has finally crept up on us. It’s a small regatta that’s held in Trost, so we have the good fortune of not having to travel for it. But due to the fact that it’s held on a Friday, it’s usually a pretty small venue, with only a few events and a few crews attending. The big race that’s held in Trost is the Trost Invitational and it doesn’t happen until nearly the end of the season.

The regatta goes well; the novice men and women manage to snag second place and first place, respectively. The quad manages to get second and I can’t help but laugh at Jaeger’s expense, that is, until my boat winds up getting second place in our event too. (The Shiganshina crew was apparently still pissed about their loss a couple weeks ago on their home water… Oh well, we’ve still got a chance to crush them at the Invitational. I don’t doubt we’re still going to get a serious talking-to from Levi though…)

Sweaty and smelly and still wearing our unis with just some sweatpants tugged on over them, Marco and I head back to the dorms. I can tell Marco is a little disappointed at the turn out of the race. He’s quiet and every now and then I see him fiddle with the silver medal laced around his neck. Absently, I bump his shoulder as we walk and shoot him a quick smile. He flashes me one in return but I can tell it’s a bit forced.

“Don’t be so glum,” I tell him, “Second place is great. We were only off of first by a second.”

Marco shrugs.

“I know. First just would’ve been nice.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. We did our best, and we can still smoke ‘em at the Invitational.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You fought hard, man. Don’t be down about it.”

He looks back over at me, and smiles again. It’s small, but it’s more genuine and I’m relieved to see it. Marco doesn’t look right without a grin on his face.

“You know,” I start. We’ve got a ways till we reach the dorms at this point, but I can’t help but slow my pace out a bit, in an effort to prolong our walk. “I feel kinda like a jerk, but you know, I never really asked about your rowing history… I mean. Don’t take this the wrong way, but there aren’t a lot of really talented rowers coming out of Jinae…”

Marco actually laughs at that.

“Hah, well, you’re not wrong.” He pauses for a moment, “That’s actually kind of the reason I transferred. The Jinae College crew was just… it wasn’t really giving me what I needed.”

“Like… actual skill?”

“Right.”

“So… You obviously didn’t start rowing with them… I started rowing here when I was a freshman, but you said you’ve rowed for 8 years?”

He nods at me.

“Yeah, I started right before high school. It’s kind of a weird story. My mom’s a CRNA and she works at the Children’s Hospital in Jinae. One of her coworkers, another CRNA, he actually used to be on the National Olympic Rowing Team. He rowed with them for… gosh, for 15 years, I think is what he said. He only stopped because he started having back problems. That’s when he started Anesthesia school and got into what he does now.”

I nod at him, urging him to continue.

“But anyway, I met him at some like… hospital employee get together I went to with my mom, and I was just so totally enthralled with all his rowing stories. He seemed to notice too, because he offered to teach me how to row if I wanted to.”

“Woah, seriously? That is so cool.”

“Yeah. So I asked my mom, and she said she’s fine with it, so he got me signed up at this rowing club just outside of town, mostly sculling stuff, you know? He taught me on the ergs, then he started putting me out in the boats. You know, I actually didn’t even row sweep until a couple years down the line. I sculled mostly when I first started. But the club eventually got bigger and bigger and started doing sweep rowing. So… yeah, that’s about the long and short of it. I rowed with them for years till I went to college.”

“What’s the deal with Jinae College’s team, anyway? I mean. I don’t wanna come off mean here, but they really could use some um…  _improvement_ …” I say to him carefully.

Marco just shrugs absently.

“It’s a lot of things. Mostly it’s the fact that they’re entirely student run. People don’t really go to Jinae College for sports, you know? They go for the academics. The JC crew suffers mostly from a lack of funding, a lack of an official coach, and a lack of a set schedule. They practice when they can, they get whatever funds they can beg from the school, and they usually just have the most experienced rower on the team act as a coach. So… they’re just kind of a product of circumstance. A lot of potential, but none of the essential assets to really get them going.”

“Huh…” I mumble, “I’d never really thought about that…”

Marco and I are steadily approaching the fork in the sidewalk to our respective dorms.

“Yeah… I felt kind of bad for leaving, you know?” He says, “But I just… I wanted something more competitive. I wanted somewhere that had the means and ability to really have a good team. So… I came here.”

We slow to a stop at the split in the path.

“Well, I’m glad you did.” I say softly before I even have time to stop myself. I feel my body tense; why did I say that?

But Marco just turns his gaze to me and smiles.

“Yeah… I’m really glad I did too.” He pauses, “Got to find my best friend.”

Did he just call me his best friend?

“I… I’m your best friend?”

Marco furrows his brow, like he’s confused I would even ask.

“…Of course you are.”

‘Best friend’ isn’t ‘boyfriend’, but it’s damn good enough for me. I smile at him and nod.

“Well, I guess you’re mine too then.”

He claps his hand against my arm and grins ear to ear.

“And to think you tried to hate me.” He says with a laugh.

_God, if you only knew, Marco_ .

After that, he starts to turn away and head over to Maria, but he stops mid-turn and spins back around to face me.

“Oh, shit, I almost forgot. The party tonight, you going?”

“Party?” I ask, a bit befuddled.

“Yeah, at Eren’s.”

I nod knowingly, understanding very quickly why I hadn’t heard about the party, pursing my lips.

“Ahhh, yeah, that’s why I didn’t hear about it. I dunno, man.”

“Come onnnn, you gotta go. Eren said I could bring someone if I wanted, so I want you to come.”

I think he can see the reticence on my face.

“Look,” Marco says, “I promise I’ll be your Jaeger-buffer all night, if necessary.”

I sigh before giving him a brief nod.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go.”

“Good! Bert, Reiner, and Connie I think are gunna meet me at my room around 8 so we could pregame, but you can come over whenever.”

“Cool, need any beer?”

“Nah, I’ve got some and Reiner said he’s picking up a case too.”

“Alright, see you in a bit.”

Marco shoots me a quick wave and retreats back towards Maria. I watch him as he goes, waiting till he’s made it inside before I head back towards my room.

When I get back to my room, no one is there yet; my roommates are probably still mulling around the regatta site, buying random shit. Reiner’s probably stocking up on more flamboyant spandex. I’m not even joking when I say that, either. There’s an entire market in rowing centered around brightly colored, crazy-looking, sometimes even glittery spandex shorts, and Reiner is typically their number one customer. The drawer for his workout clothes looks like a gay bar sneezed in it. It’s truly a magical sight to behold.

I figure I can at least be the first to grab a shower. It’s barely even 5 pm right now, so I’ve got a good amount of time before I can head over to Marco’s… At the earliest, I could probably get away with showing up around 7:15. I sigh and grab my towel, retreating to the shower. Time to play “Let’s Kill Time”.

**::**

Time actually passes decently quickly though, mostly because by the time I’m out of the shower, Bertholdt, Connie, and Reiner have all returned from the regatta site. Reiner’s got two plastic bags in hand and I know I’m going to get stuck looking at all the shorts he bought as he proudly lays them out across the couch.

I don’t even want to know how much money he spent on these, cause there are at least 10 new pairs laid out on the couch. I never really figured someone would need this many pairs of spandex, but I suppose Reiner does.

I think the best thing about it though has to be that sometimes, Bertholdt runs out of clean spandex to wear and gets stuck wearing one of Reiner’s pairs. Bless him, Bert always tries to find the most…  _subtle_ … pair he can manage, but even the least flamboyant pairs are still usually very glittery.

“Well, Reiner.” I say, running my fingers through my slowly-drying hair, “I think you’ve got enough, we can finally open up our Crew-Themed Gay Club.”

“It will be grand.” The blond says proudly. I shake my head and move to change clothes.

I’m not proud to admit that I spend a stupid amount of time staring at my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. Jeans are kind of given, that’s the easy part, but ultimately, I opt for a simple black v-neck. Nothing that’s too fancy, but still has me looking fly.

Yes, some people still say 'looking fly' . Quit looking at me like that.

**::**

7:10 eventually rolls around and I decide that I’m just tired of waiting. With a quick wave to Reiner, I tell them that I’m going to head on over to Marco’s.

“Yeah, we’ll be there in a bit, gotta swing by the store and grab some beer.” The blond replies, before giving me a sly look. “You uhhh, want us to, uh, take our time? You know, for you two to have a little uh,  _quality_ … time.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” Is all I tell him before retreating out the door of our suite. From inside the room, I hear him call out,

“Suit yourself, lover boy!”

When I get to Marco’s, he’s got some music playing, and from what I can tell from the hallway, it sounds like Infected Mushrooms… Huh. Learn new things about this kid every day. I knock briefly and it’s hardly a second before he’s flinging open the door.

“Hey! Come on in!”

Marco looks… fucking great. He’s got on a dark red plaid button up that’s just a  _little_ too tight on his chest. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he’s got on a pair of jeans that are going to make tonight  _very_ difficult on me. Damn, dude.

“Beer?” He asks me, moving to his laptop to skip to the next song. It’s another Infected Mushroom song that I quickly recognize as “Artillery”.

“Yeah, thanks.” I say as he moves towards his mini fridge to pull a couple bottles out. “Didn’t know you liked Infected Mushroom,” I tell him, plopping down on his bed gently.

He hands me a beer and nods, standing in the middle of the room as he pops his own open.

“Oh yeah, didn’t know you liked them either. I put it on a random playlist though, so who knows what’ll come on next.” He lets out a laugh and offers the neck of his beer bottle out. “Cheers,”

I clink my bottle against his and bring it to my lips, taking maybe a bigger swig than I probably needed. But I’m suddenly wondering if coming over this early was a mistake, and I’m silently hoping that maybe Reiner and the others will hurry and get here.

They don’t hurry though, in fact, they arrive exactly when they had planned to: 8:00 pm on the dot. They’ve got Connie and Sasha along with them, and I honestly couldn’t be happier for a couple buffers. As much as I love spending time with Marco, there’s only so much I can manage without succumbing to my own nerves. Hell, by the time they get here, I’m already 2.5 beers deep simply because it’s the easiest way to get me to calm down.

The first thing Marco asks when the rest of our friends arrive is about who’s going to be the Designated Driver.

“Pshhhhhhhh,” Connie scoffs, “Dude, no.”

Marco looks confused.

“Eren’s place is like… a 10 minute walk from here.” I chime in, “Don’t need a DD.”

“I love it.” He says, before pointing to the beer and telling everyone to help themselves.

As soon as Reiner shoves the case of beer he’d brought with him into the mini-fridge (how he managed to make it fit, I have no idea), he turns around and demands that we play  **Thunderstruck** .

“Thunderstruck?” Marco asks, killing off his second beer.

“Dude, you’ve never played Thunderstruck?!” Sasha asks incredulously. “Reiner, explain it to him. It’s only one of the best pre-gaming drinking games ever.”

Reiner nods.

“Basically, everyone stands in a circle, you put on “Thunderstruck” by ACDC, and one person starts drinking the first time they say “Thunder!”. They have to drink until the next time the song says “Thunder!”, then the next person in line takes over and drinks, and so on and so forth.”

“That sounds… horrible.” Marco says, cocking his head a bit.

 Yeah, it is.” Connie chimes in. “But there’s this awesome part, where like. They shout “Thunder!” and then there’s a big guitar solo. So that person gets kinda fucked, but so long as it isn’t you, it’s hilarious.”

“I’m in,” is all I say, desperate to imbibe just a bit more alcohol before I face a party with Marco.

“Well alright then, I think I have that song if you wanna try and find it, Reiner.”

“You got it, everyone make sure you’ve got a back-up beer!”

Reiner doesn’t waste a second, searching through Marco’s music library and finding the song. Soon enough, we’re all standing in a circle, Marco wedged in next to me, as the intro guitar starts to play.

“Who’s going first?” Sasha asks.

It’s Bertholdt, to my right, who raises his beer.

“I will,” he says.

Before I know it, the song is shouting out “Thunder!”, and next it’s my turn. The song says “Thunder!” 10 times within the first minute, and it’s poor Sasha who winds up getting stuck on the first long break between the “Thunder!”s. She grimaces as she downs her beer until her turn is blessedly up. I laugh, but all this means is that, if I remember the song right, the next long break between “Thunder!”s is when I’m going to have to drink. Jolly.

And I’m right. I drink throughout the guitar solo, finishing off my beer and seamlessly switching to my next bottle. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Marco laughing and anxiously awaiting his turn to drink.

I’m pretty impressed because we actually make it through about three quarters of the song before one of us decides we’ve had enough. Incidentally, that someone winds up being Connie the next time he gets stuck drinking on a long guitar break.

We keep on this way for a good thirty more minutes and by the time we’re ready to head to Eren’s, I’m sufficiently tipsy. I’m not drunk or anything, I’m plenty coherent, but I’m happily buzzed and I’m more than happy to walk by Marco’s side as we make our way to Eren’s place.

The party is decently crowded, especially for the relatively small space that is Eren’s apartment. Mostly it’s filled with rowers, as well as a few faces I don’t recognize but who I’m sure are friends of Jaeger’s. As we wedge our way through, it’s a little difficult to keep track of Marco but I follow him as best I can through the people. As we’re sliding through the random clusters of people, I feel Marco determinedly reach back and grab ahold of my wrist, pulling me with him as we migrate through in search of a clear spot.

Despite the beer running through my system and slight buzz I have going, I can’t help the way my stomach flips at the feeling of his fingers wrapped around my wrist. And I can’t say I’m not disappointed when we finally reach a clear spot by the hallway and he releases me. I’m about to say something to him, lost a bit in the few beers I’ve had and the music that’s playing around us, but before I can, I see Eren making his way towards us. Great.

“Marco!” Eren calls out, sliding by a couple people and approaching us. He claps Marco on the shoulder. “Glad you made it, man!”

“Yeah, didn’t expect so many people!” Marco says back, doing his best to make his voice carry over the music. Eren just shrugs and turns his attention to me.

“Oh, Jean, I see you tagged along too. I didn’t realize they were letting the horses out to pasture today.” He taunts with a smile.

I can’t help the way my fingers clench at my sides.

“Don’t you have a dick to be sucking, Jaeger? Coach’s maybe?” I sneer at him, and his smile fades.

“Eat me, Seabiscuit.”

Without thinking, I start to take an offensive step towards Jaeger, fist already balled up at my side. But before I even can finish the step, Marco is sliding in between us and ushering me back and away from Eren.

“Oooookay,” Marco starts, “I think that’s enough play time for you two today. Come on, Jean, let’s go find Reiner.”

Marco ushers me back, moving the two of us to the hallway and (hopefully) towards the kitchen. I can’t quit looking over Marco’s shoulder back at Eren as we move away, until finally, Marco gets my attention with a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, we can go if you want. We can just drink at my place or something.”

I shake my head and smile.

“Psh, hell no. If Eren’s gunna be a little bitch to me, then I’m at least gunna drink his booze.”

Marco laughs at that and looks like he’s about to reply to me, when suddenly, a slurring voice from down the hall is calling out to us.

“Theeeeeeere’shhh my favorite stern paaaaaaiiiir.” Armin calls out, moving quickly down the hall towards us, a red solo cup in his hand.

“Oh my god, he’s hammered.” I mutter flatly to Marco, who’s doing his best to conceal his grin as Armin reaches us.

“Hey, Armin.” Marco says, putting a hand on Armin’s shoulder, partially stabilizing him.

Armin looks up Marco, then at me.

“Jean, Marco,” he says in completely the wrong order, “Did shou guys know… there’sh punch… in the kitchen? S’really good too.”

Silent as the fucking night, Mikasa is suddenly standing beside us, one hand moving to grab Armin’s arm.

“Hey, Mikaserrrr,” Armin slurs out at her.

“I’ve got him, guys, thanks.” She says, already moving Armin away, hopefully to get some water.

“Time to raaaaace. Allll bitchesssss, sit ready!” The blond calls out as Mikasa leads him away from us.

“Is he okay?” Marco asks, somewhat nervously.

“Oh yeah. Just a lightweight. He’s probably only had a couple beers and a sip of punch. Speaking of, let’s go get some before it’s gone.” I tell him, putting my hands on his shoulders and ushering him down the hall towards the kitchen.

There’s a huge Gatorade cooler sitting on the counter with the letters  **OCP** written on the outside in sharpie, and I can only assume that’s where Jaeger’s famous One-Cup-Punch is being held. Marco doesn’t hesitate to grab a cup and fill it up to the brim with the bright red punch. It’s only when he grabs a second cup and starts to fill it up too that I stop him.

“Woah, woah, what’re you doing?”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“…Getting some punch?”

“Hah, shit dude, we don’t need that much, I promise.”

“What?”

Oh the poor boy… He doesn’t even know.

“Okay… Let me tell you about this punch. It’s called One Cup Punch… and it’s called that for a reason. Like, between the two of us, what you’ve got in that first cup is probably plenty. This isn’t spiked Hi-C fruit punch or anything. This is… This is basically just food coloring and alcohol…”

His eyebrows raise a bit dramatically, almost as if he doesn’t believe me.

“Seriously, just smell it.”

Hesitantly, Marco brings the cup to his nose and sniffs it.

“Oh dear god.” He exclaims, wrinkling up his nose at the offending scent.

"Yeah… I mean. It’s good. But you might have liver failure if you drink too much of it… So yeah. Let’s… let’s just split a cup.”

With a curt nod, he and I slide our way out of the kitchen, Marco following me as we slip past more people making their way towards the punch. As soon as we find an open spot by the wall, we stop, leaning against it. My buzz is starting to fade and with a grimace, I take a big swig of the punch, choking it down as best I can before passing it off to Marco. He does the same thing and forces it down with a cough.

“Oh sweet Jesus, it’s like someone mixed sugar and gasoline.”

“Yeah, you could probably burn a house down with it. But you’ll get used to the taste.”

**::**

I don’t really know how much time has passed, but at this point, I’m  _definitely_ tipsy and teetering on drunk, and Marco… Marco is definitely drunk. Our cup of punch is almost gone, and we’ve mostly just been standing around, leaning against the wall and laughing about fucking  _nothing_ . I have a twisting feeling in my gut that says we may have drunk the punch a bit too quickly and that he and I both might pay for it later. I’ve already begun to notice the way Marco is definitely slurring his words, and I’ve most certainly noticed the lack of space between the two of us as he’s been talking to me. Deciding that Marco probably doesn’t need any more to drink, I quickly down the last couple gulps of punch sitting in the bottom of the cup, cringing as it burns its way down my throat. I abandon the cup on the hallway table. Jaeger can deal with the cleanup, fuck him.

With a smile, I take a glance at the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. It would seem that Reiner and Bertholdt have finally made their way into the center of it, towering over almost all the other people dancing, as they bump and grind. Also undoubtedly drunk at this point. Connie and Sasha are busy making out in the corner. Oh well, power to them.

I’m a bit lost in my thoughts when I suddenly feel a weight on my shoulder. I glance over and see that Marco has flopped his head onto my shoulder and is giggling.

“What is s-so funny, dare I ask?” I demand, my voice a little unsteady from the booze, as Marco continues to giggle like a madman. He just lifts his hand and points out to the dancefloor.

“Bert’s so… so  _tall_ …” He laughs out, lifting his head off my shoulder.

“No more punch for you, sir.” I tell him, doing my best not to slur my own words.

“No, nooooo, I’m goooood.” Marco whines back at me, before suddenly shifting his tone as the music shifts to play the unmistakable beat of “The Cha Cha Slide”. The look on Marco’s face is sheer joy. Please, no….

“Jean!” He says, grabbing my shoulder dramatically. “It’s the Cha Cha Slide! Come on!” 

"Oh, no, no,” I stammer out, but there’s no stopping him. Marco suddenly grabs my hand is dragging me towards the living room dance floor where people have already begun to do the steps.

“Noooo,” I whine as he pulls me along, fingers holding onto mine tightly as he pulls me into the crowd.

Marco doesn’t waste a minute before joining in with the dance movements, but I just shake my head, letting the idiots around me dance as I stand still. Marco just smiles at me, and reaches out to grab my hand again as the song demands “Everybody clap your hands!”. With a sigh, I hang my head and pull my hand from his, begrudgingly joining in with the clapping.

The next lyric starts demanding “How low can you go, can you go down low, all the way to the floor?” And Marco… Marco doesn’t waste a minute, already bending his legs and shaking his ass without restraint as the rest of the room proceeds to do the same. He looks up at me and nods at me to join in, but I pointedly shake my head, waiting until finally the normal steps resume.

Bitterly, I follow along with the instructions, doing my best not to smile as Marco continues to dance along with vigor.Thankfully, the song finally fades out, transitioning into some other random song with a heavy bass beat. I’m already turning to exit the dance floor, but as I do, I feel Marco’s hand grab mine and tug me back, pulling me in close suddenly, pulling me so that I’m chest to chest with him.

Okay then…

My brain is definitely not functioning enough to deal with this. I move to step away again, but his grip stays firm on my hand.

“Jeannnnn,” he whines, “dance with meeeeee.”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t move away. The people have edged the two of us closer together and the room is a little spinny around me, and Marco is already moving his hips to the beat. I’m making a point not to touch him, aside from the grip he’s got on my hand. His cheeks are flushed, red and bright underneath his freckles, and he’s biting his lip as he moves along with the music.

This is too much and he and I are both very much drunk. But I can’t seem to pull away. I should fucking know better than this, but my skin is buzzing with alcohol and the music and the feeling of Marco close to me.

Marco releases my hand and I think maybe this is when I should make my escape, just leave and forget that this is even happening. But before I can, he rests one of his arms on my shoulders, hips still swaying and edging himself a little closer to me. I want to grab hold of his hips, drag his body flush against mine, attach my mouth to his neck, taste the sweat as it drips along his skin. But I don’t. I’m almost frozen, body barely moving to the beat as his arm attempts to move us closer together.

This isn’t happening.

My only respite comes in the form of some drunken girl; she loses her balance beside us and stumbles over into Marco, causing him to stumble as well. He catches himself slightly on my shoulders and laughs. This is my chance.

Without another second’s hesitation, I grab his arm and drag the two of us out of the crowd and towards the front door.

“Jeannnn,” he whines, “where’re we goingggg?”

“I’m ready to go.” I tell him, trying my best not to snap at him.

“Aww, I wanna stay.” He says, pulling on my arm to stop me as we approach the front door.

I stop, and feel my shoulders slump a little bit.

“Okay,” I tell him, nodding briefly. “Don’t have any more punch. And stay with Reiner and Bertholdt okay? They’ll make sure you get back safe. I’m gunna head back.”

I don’t wait before I turn and head out the front door of the house, walking into the crisp night air, thankful to hear the steady thump of the music inside the house muffling as I move away from it.

“Jean, wait!” Marco calls out from behind me, and for some reason, I stop. “I’m coming!”

Suddenly, he’s by my side, face still flushed and sweaty, but smiling.

“You don’t have to,” I say, trying to make my voice sound as sober as possible, “Stay, man. Have some fun. I’m just… I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“S’no fun if you leave.” He tells me, still a bit of a slur in his words.

I just shrug and start to walk, doing my very best to walk in as straight a line as I can. The world’s a little bit spinny around me, the edges of my vision a little fuzzy as we walk in relative silence away from Eren’s place and back onto campus.

Marco is a little worse off than I am, and I notice it quickly. He’s weaving a bit as he walks, giggling at himself in the silence, and a few times I’ve had to steady him as he’s wobbled. I honestly couldn’t be happier as the dorms come into focus. I can go to bed, I can sleep, I can forget this, wash my hands of this night. I can pretend that Marco hadn’t been edging his hips closer to me. He was drunk and that was it. Everyone gets touchy-feely when they’re drunk.

The number of times Connie has drunkenly grabbed my ass are too numerous to count, really.

I decide to walk Marco up to his room at the very least. His balance is getting a little worse, and I can tell that those last gulps of punch he’d had are starting to hit him hard. Honestly, I’m not fairing much better, feeling the ground start to get a bit wobbly beneath my feet as well, but it’s the least I can do to make sure he makes it upstairs and into bed okay.

It takes him a good while to fob into the building, struggling as his lanyard gets stuck in his pocket, until finally, I yank out my own fob and buzz the two of us in. I pointedly ignore the stares of the people in the common room as we head into the building and towards the stairwell.

Bless him, Marco is trying his very best. It’s just a shame that his very best isn’t really helping us get up the stairs at all.

“Damn, dude…” I mumble, wrapping my arm around his waist as he laughs again and takes a couple more steps upwards. I’m doing my very best to support the two of us, while still feeling my own body growing increasingly more intoxicated.

We  _finally_ reach the top of the stairwell, and I have never been happier to see the fucking door to his hallway. As the two of us step up the last couple of stairs, I feel Marco stumble again, and at this point, I can’t keep my balance. I feel my feet tripping up beneath me and the two of us fumble into the wall. Next thing I know, I’m looking up at Marco, and he is a  _lot_ closer to me than he was a moment ago.

My back is pressed against the wall, and Marco is right in front of me, chest pressed flush against my own. He’s got one hand on the wall beside my head and his other hand that had been holding onto my arm is lowering so he can grab ahold of my hip.

Marco’s staring down at me, his light brown eyes are hazy and heavy lidded, and I should really fucking move. I should slide away from the wall, fucking open the hall door and get him to his fucking room. He’s drunk, I’m drunk, and the two of us just need to sleep this off. He would never be doing this if he weren’t totally blitzed. But he isn’t moving, and I can’t seem to make myself move either.

I feel his fingers grip my hip a little harder as he stares at me, letting out a shaky breath.

“Jean…”

I hate the way he breathes my name, I hate the way it makes my own breath hitch and stick in my chest.

“Jean…” he says again, his voice just barely a whisper.

I’m frozen as Marco leans his head down towards mine slowly.

**::**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY about that cliffhanger... (Okay, I'm only a LITTLE sorry, really...) 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting. You are all angels and have really kept my motivation up regarding this story. You're wonderful.
> 
> As usual, I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). Please feel free to add me if you'd like.


	12. Wakeful Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//The clues to you and I are sprawlin' out like roads_   
>  _And if we find a place for them, they won't lead home_   
>  _I only meant to say it once but it's too late_   
>  _I'm into you and out again//_
> 
> Stromata || Charlotte Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Terms**  
>  There aren’t any rowing terms that need to be defined here.
> 
>  _Non-rowing term_ :  
>  **Striper** : A local term for a striped bass. I don’t know how common a term that is outside of the Southeastern US, and especially not outside the US, so I figured it could be worth mentioning.

This cannot be happening.

There is absolutely no way this is happening.

And yet, here I stand, my back pressed against the cold stone walls of the stairwell of Maria. Marco is in front of me – intoxicated, face flushed, lips parted, and staring at me through half lidded eyes. And it’s just too fucking much.

“Jean…” He whispers to me. At the mere sound of my name crossing his lips, I feel every fiber of my being sobering up. The mere sound of my name dripping from his tongue, husky and full, pulls me from my intoxication. Shoulders tensing, spine straightening, I see him lean down towards me.

He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Without even thinking, I duck away. Dodging and ducking out in one fluid motion, freeing myself from the cage his arms had created around me. There’s a moment when I see his eyes follow me – his hazy, intoxicated eyes following my movements as I move away from him. He looks about ready to topple, a combination of being a little too intoxicated and getting knocked off balance by my quick, jerky movements as I struggled to get away from him.

I just need to get him back to his room. That’s really what’s best right now. He’s drunk, he’ll need a little bit of help, but that’s it. If I can just get him to his room, this will all be alright. Hesitantly, I wrap an arm around his waist and usher him towards the door to his hallway.

He isn’t… he isn’t  _sloppy_ drunk, per se, but he’s definitely getting there. I mean, he’s definitely drunk, but he can more or less still walk without having me support him. So as we slide into his hall, I opt to release him and let him walk on his own, even if his gait is a bit wobbly and even if he’s weaving all over the damn hall. Luckily, his room isn’t far down. He and I move along, him struggling to pull his lanyard out of his pocket and still walk at the same time, and a couple times, I see him wobble a bit on his own feet. It’s all that I can do to simply move closer whenever he looks like he might need some support, but the closeness is simply too much.

We’re standing in front of his room now, Marco leaning haphazardly against the doorframe as he struggles to get his key in the lock. He misses a couple times before pausing, leaning his forehead against the door with a huff, giggling at himself, and turning his attention to me.

“Jeeeeeeeannnnn….” He whines at me, holding out his lanyard for me to take it. "Make it... make it worrrrrrrrk." 

I sigh and grab the lanyard wordlessly, moving swiftly to unlock the door. As soon as it’s open, I do my best to usher him past the threshold and in the direction of his bed, while still keeping as much distance between us as possible.

_Look at him…_ I think to myself.  _Look at him, he’s drunk. He’s obviously drunk. He’s drunk enough that he could hardly open his own door._

He’s drunk enough that  _whatever_ he was trying to do in the stairwell meant absolutely nothing.

The room still dark, Marco moves and plops down on his bed, lying down dramatically and toeing off his shoes. I can only stand in the middle of his room for a moment, watching him move clumsily in the dim light that’s filtering in from the hallway. I watch him as he shuffles his covers down and snuggles down into the blankets, still wearing his shirt and his jeans. I shake my head.

It’s almost as an afterthought that he looks up at me.

“Jean…” He says, his voice still a bit slurred, but suddenly sounding more focused as he stares up at me.

I watch as he scooches back, edging himself over to the side of the bed closest to the wall and plastering his back against the wall as much as he can. He’s making space… He’s trying to create an open spot in the tiny twin bed. An invitation. 

“Stay with me…” Marco mumbles, and I can’t really figure out if he’s asking me or telling me.

Either way, I can’t. And I know it. He’s drunk. He’s so drunk that tomorrow would only be a nightmare if he were to wake up and find his best  _male_ friend tucked up next to him in bed.

So I shake my head no, not able to physically say the word, and move away quickly. I grab his water bottle off the top of his fridge and retreat to the bathroom, filling it up and returning only so I can place it by his bed on the floor.

“Jean.” He says again, and I have to simply pretend he hasn’t said my name at all tonight.

“I put your water bottle right there… on the floor by the bed…” I say hurriedly, doing my very best to not look at him, doing everything I can to calm the uneasy breaths filtering their way in and out of my lungs.

“Don’t go.” Marco says, his voice still laced with booze and sleepiness. I can only shake my head again.

“Make sure you drink a lot of water.”

I don’t waste another moment before moving towards the door to leave.

“Jean.” I vaguely hear him ask again.

“Goodnight, Marco.” I say, not daring to look back at him.

"Text m-”

I don’t wait to hear the rest of his request before I’ve closed the door behind me.

It’s all I can do not to sprint down the hall and back towards my own room.

**::**

Sleep doesn’t come easily to me that night. I burst through the door of my dorm, and I’ve never been happier to see the place be empty. My roommates are all likely still at Eren’s and I am 100% okay with the solitude. I grab some water, knowing that I’ll probably need it, and hole myself up in my bedroom. But even as I tuck and bury myself beneath my covers I can’t sleep.

I’m drunk still – my head fuzzy, my body vibrating. Beneath my body, I can feel my bed beginning to spin around in sick and twisting motions. I want to pretend that my insomnia is simply a factor of having had too much to drink. But despite my physical intoxication, I’m punch-drunk on far more than alcohol and I know it.

I’m wide awake as I wait for the room around me to end its ceaseless spinning. I’m wide awake as I stare at the ceiling and hope to god that I can simply forget everything that happened tonight.

I’m awake even as I clench my eyes shut and try to forget the way that Marco had looked at me, the way he had said my name, the way he had stared down at me with that look of hazy frustration and need. I’m wide  _fucking_ awake when I remember I’ve seen that look before. That same exact look. It’s the same look Daniel had always given me, the same look he’d shot me whenever he was sure we were alone, whenever he was sure there were no prying eyes on us. I know that look and I can’t… I won’t do this again.

Because Marco isn’t like that and I know it. No matter how he might look at me when he’s drunk, no matter how touchy feely he might get. Marco isn’t like that and I can get through this if I just make sure to remind myself of that.

I’m wide awake when all I can do is pray that Marco will simply forget this evening too. I wonder if it’s too much to hope for.

**::**

I hardly sleep at all, even after my roommates make it back in the late evening hours. Even after they’ve all quieted and fallen into the deep hush of drunken sleep. Even as the first little rays of light begin to seep through my window, I hardly sleep, existing completely in hazy state, torn between restlessness and frantic exhaustion.

And even though I’ve lain awake, restless and uneasy and steadily sobering up all night, I cannot seem to draw myself from my bed. I don’t get up when I hear the pulsing roar of a T-Rex, the sound of an alarm I must have forgotten to disable for the weekend. I don’t uncover even when Bertholdt knocks on my door to tell me they’re going to breakfast and that I should come with them.

I don’t uncover even when they get back and go about their normal Saturday routines.

Maybe I can pretend I’m hungover. It’s really the only excuse I have.

Marco texts me in the later morning hours; short and simple, asking if I want to go to breakfast. But I don’t reply.

Morning fades to afternoon, and I still can’t bring myself to get up, to move around, to face the day. I know that I’m walling up, I know that this isn’t at all a good way to handle what happened last night, but I really can’t figure out what else to do. (Granted, to my credit, I do manage to move from lying down in bed to sitting up in bed. So that’s something…)

Marco texts me a couple times in the afternoon, and all I can do is look at his messages, unable to actually open them and read them.

He texts me once more in the early evening; short and simple, like before, asking if I want to go to dinner. I don’t reply. 

The evening comes and goes, and Marco doesn’t text me again.

Around 8:30 that night, I’m sitting in bed and gnawing carelessly on a granola bar, when a small, faint knock sounds on my door. Granola bar hanging out of my mouth haphazardly, I stare at the door as if it might attack, as if it might burst open. I don’t say anything as another knock sounds out.

“Jean…” a muffled voice says through the wood. “Man, it’s Reiner, open up.”

I stay quiet, not ready to deal with whatever he might have to say to me.

“Marco was asking about you at dinner… Says he hasn’t heard from you since the party.”

_Since the party?_ Maybe he doesn’t remember. God, I can only hope he doesn’t remember.

“Come on, man… I dunno what happened, but holing yourself up seems a bit silly, don’t you think? You don’t have to talk to me, but at least let Marco know you’re alright.”

Maybe Reiner’s right. Maybe I am being a bit melodramatic. Like Reiner said a while ago, I do sometimes rank a 10 out of 10 on the worst ways to handle my problems. But I still don’t feel ready to face Marco. I’m not ready to talk to him and attempt to play things off like whatever it was that happened last night was totally normal, inconsequential, and forgettable. I can’t look him square in the face and pretend that it was nothing. Because even if it was nothing to him, it wasn’t nothing to me. And I’ve already played that game. I did that shit for half a year. I can’t do it again.

There’s gotta be a line, but I’m not ready to figure that line out just yet.

**::**

Marco texts me only once again that night, simply asking if I’m doing okay, and I still can’t bring myself to respond.

I glance around my room. Each second I’m in here, it feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller. It feels as if the walls might threaten to tighten themselves around me until I have nowhere to go but out. I need some air.

I spare a glance at my watch briefly. It’s almost 10 o’clock. I vaguely remember hearing Connie leave earlier, but I’m not sure if Reiner and Bertholdt will still be here. It is a Saturday night… maybe they went out. I can only hope they went out. With a sigh, I decide to stand up, stretching out my limbs, stiff from spending the majority of the day curled up on my bed.

Maybe some fresh air will do me good, and this late at night, it’s unlikely I’ll have to deal with that many people. I grab my phone and my keys, stuffing them both into the saggy pockets of my sweatpants. There’s a moment when all I can do is stare at my bedroom door, silently debating whether or not to exit. Holing myself up in here has worked out  _okay_ so far… not great… but okay. But it’s growing stifling and I know that eventually I’m going to have to suck it up, quit building a wall around myself, and face the outside world.

But for now, I know where I can go. Somewhere where I can revel in a bit of solitude, comfort, and fresh air. With a brief nod to myself – mostly just for self-encouragement – I open the door and head out into the common area.

The room is empty, aside from Bertholdt, who’s sitting quietly on the couch, a book in one hand and a beer in the other. I suppose it was too much to hope that I could slip out with zero human interaction. From his and Reiner’s bedroom, I can hear the muffled sound of Amon Amarth playing through the speakers. As I emerge, I see Bertholdt lift his gaze to rest on me.

“Hey, you.” He says softly.

“Hey.” I mumble back, pursing my lips and walking past the couch and towards the door to the hall.

From behind me, I hear Bertholdt speak up again.

“So… Reiner and I were gunna go to the bar in a little bit… If you wanted to come.”

I pause in front of the door, not daring to look back at Bertholdt. I know he’s staring at me, I know he’s looking at me questioningly, and hoping I might agree to tag along with them. I shake my head.

“Oh, uh. Nah. Thanks, though.”

I hear him exhale softly. Not an exasperated sigh or anything, not annoyed, but a sigh that he’s accepted my answer, even if he wished I might come with them.

“Where you headed?” He asks me casually. I glance back at him and shrug.

"Just uh, just the library.” I say before I can really think of a better excuse. I watch as Bertholdt looks me over, undoubtedly noticing my lack of a backpack, books, or notebooks. He knows I’m lying; like I said, I’ve never been a good liar. And I fully expect him to call me on it, but instead he just nods.

“Okay, well, be safe…”

“I will… You guys have fun tonight.”

“Shoot me a text if you change your mind, yeah?”

Bertholdt has that look on his face. That look that tells me he actually just wants me to text him or Reiner if I need them, if I need or want to talk. Bertholdt’s always been that way. Quiet and reserved, but always available and subtle whenever needed. I do my best to nod at him. No matter how walled off I feel, the two of them have always gone out of their way to offer themselves if I ever need someone to break them down.

“I will…” I tell him softly.

I plaster on as much of a smile as I can and Bertholdt simply nods back at me before turning his attention back to his book. I don’t wait before opening up the door and heading out into the hallway.  

**::**

It really is a gorgeous night out, and I’m happy to be able to look up and see the wide expanse of stars above me. I stuff my hands into my pockets as I trudge along, making my way towards the fields. I do my best to move swiftly past Dorm Maria. I don’t know exactly where Marco is tonight: for all I know, he could be out, but just in case he isn’t, I don’t want to linger too long around his dorm. 

Once I’m far enough past it, I make a point to relax my gait a little. It’s really is a lovely night. There’s a gentle breeze rustling through the air and I somewhat wish I’d thought to bring a jacket. I should be fine though.

Steadily, with even, determined steps, I make my way across the fields. Slowly but surely, I approach the boathouse: a dark beacon coated in a thick veil of night. I stride by it, glancing up the stairs. I know the upper level is locked, as are all the bays, but I still briefly peek my head in through the chainlink gate that shuts off the bay.

What I wouldn’t give to be on the water right now: coursing along the night-black expanse of water as if it were an endless sea.

I shake my head, turning my attention to the river across from our boathouse. Quickly, I jog over to the dock ramp. Standing at the top of it, I look down over the water: pitch like tar in the nighttime glow. Placid and inviting. And I feel calm.

Sometimes, I like to think the river is in my blood, is in my body, is in my soul. Because no matter how I feel, no matter the state I’m in, the river has always been the thing to calm me. The water has always been a place of solace for me, a reprieve from the regular movements of the day, a kind of freedom that only the slight, lapping currents have managed to give me.

As quietly as I can, I stride down the ramp of the dock, careful not to make too much noise as I move, careful not to disturb the silence. I toe my shoes off and lower myself down by the edge of the water, crossing my legs beneath me as I try my best to relax.

I like the docks… I always have, really. No one ever really comes down here aside from during practice, and I suppose that’s part of why I like it. It’s private. It’s still. And there’s something oddly soothing about flat, dark water that spans out in front of me like a pit of tar. 

I breathe deeply, the smell of the water and the breeze rushing through me. I try not to come down here too often; I’m sure that campus safety would have some select words from me if they ever caught me slinking around the boathouse and the docks in the middle of the night. But it’s worth it once in a while. It’s worth it for the peace.

Sometimes I wonder if the blackness that spans in front of me might swallow me one day. Silent and still, could I slip down and let it take me, pull me down to where even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate. It’s a nice thought.

With a short inhale, I close my eyes.

Enough of that.

I can feel the breeze rustle through my hair, tracing its way across my skin as I listen to the water. I listen to it lap, small little wakes rutting up against the stones, as if it wished to seep up and take them over. In the distance, I hear a light slap resound against the surface. A striper, most likely, forever unrelenting in its nocturnal hunts. I breathe slowly through my nose, eyes opening softly as I stare once again across the water.

I do my best not to think, because thinking never gets me anywhere. I try not to think at all. I try not to think about Marco, or Daniel. I try not to think about the way that Marco had looked at me in the stairwell last night: all heavy-lidded eyes and uneven breath. But I can’t help but remember it. The memory not only in my mind but flooding through my body. Flush and warm: the memory is welcoming in a way I desperately wish it weren’t.

But I can’t do it again.

I just can’t.

I hang my head and listen as the water quietly laps at the dock, kissing and murmuring at the underside of the structure, as if it wants to speak to me.

I can’t do it again.

Because  _Daniel_ had looked at me that way too. He had looked at me with lust-clouded eyes, he had kissed me with fervor and hunger. He had fucked me like his life depended on it.

And he had snubbed me. Denied me and mocked me. He had loved me by night, detested me by day. And I can’t do it again. I don’t have it in me to be someone else’s burden, someone else’s problem that needs dealing with.

Maybe Marco isn’t that way, and deep down, I believe that he isn’t. But the way I feel for him terrifies me, it terrifies me enough that I know I shouldn’t let him closer. Because I know that if Marco asked it of me, I wouldn’t even hesitate to yank my still beating heart straight from my chest and offer it up to him. And it terrifies me, because Marco seems kind, he seems good, he seems genuine, but so had Daniel. Daniel had seemed gentle and tender. Daniel had been beautiful in all the ways that Marco is. But beautiful things come at steep prices and yeah, sure,  _maybe_ Marco is the exception. But it’s not a chance I’m willing to take… it’s a lesson I don’t care to learn again. 

With a sigh, I shift a bit, resting my elbows on my legs as I stare out across the blackness of the water.

At least the water is constant; always the ever-present lover by my side.

I don’t know how much time has passed before I hear him. Soft, almost hesitant footsteps edging their way down the ramp towards me. I wish I didn’t already know who it is, but there’s no question in those steps. I swallow thickly as he stands behind me now, silent and still, before he moves slowly to my side and edges down to sit beside me. He crosses his legs like mine and ever so gently, I feel his knee press up against my own. I know he notices it, but he doesn’t move away. I don’t move either.

Marco says nothing for a while, letting the two of us rest in the quiet, only the water speaking out in hushed little mumbles before us.

I wonder who might be the first to speak.

It’s Marco who dares.

“This is beautiful.” he whispers softly.

I can only nod, pointedly refusing to turn to look at him as he moves his gaze towards me.

“Never really thought to come down here at night. But it really is lovely.” He says next. I can’t help but chuckle a little. Always so optimistic, always so bright even in the darkness.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” I say softly, my gaze fixated on the water, still not able to turn my head and look at him.

Ever so slightly, he leans towards me and just barely bumps my shoulder. The gesture is almost playful on the one hand, but on the other hand, it feels solemn and serious, and it scares me how easily I can sense the mixture in such a simple gesture.

“Not to tattle, but Bertholdt told me where to find you… if you were wondering…” He pauses for a moment, “He told me you like to come down here sometimes.”

“I  _was_ wondering…” I dare to whisper back, before smiling softly. “I told him I was going to the library.”

“That worked well,” Marco says, a hint of jest in his tone. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood.

“Bert’s hard to fool…” I say with a shrug.

Marco hums in response, turning his attention back to the water.

“I texted you all day…” Marco says, his voice low and under his breath, as if he’s almost afraid to say it.

“I know.” I breathe out next to him, my tone as matter-of-fact as I can manage.

I feel him shrug his shoulders gently.

“I wish you would’ve replied to one…”

“I know…” I say again, pausing for another beat, “I’m sorry.”

I mean it too. I am sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to reply to any of his messages today even though I desperately wanted to. I’m sorry I have to go to such lengths, I’m sorry that I have to behave so ridiculously just as a means of coping with a stupid little crush. I’m sorry that one person managed to get so inside my head that I question every single thing I feel now.

I’m sorry that I’ve let Marco inch his way beneath my skin. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to wall myself off enough.

Vaguely, I hear Marco exhale.

“Don’t be.” Is all he says.

And I can’t think of anything to say back.

“Look, man…” Marco starts again, “I know something’s wrong, okay? I know you’ve got something that you’re just kinda tucking away deep down inside. And that’s okay. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to tell me anything at all if you don’t want to.” Marco says gently, eyes still directed out across the black expanse before us. “But I just wanted you to know that I’m here… I’m here if you want to talk, I’m here if you want the company.”

I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out, so I simply close it and sit in silence. I can’t look at him. I can’t speak. My mouth feels like a fucking dam and the waters are lapping at the top, so ready to come out but not quite daring to spill over the white walls of my teeth.

Time ticks by, and by, and by, and by.

It’s been too long, I let the silence reign too long. Out of the corner of my eye, I just barely see him nod hesitantly. He shifts his legs up underneath himself and pushes up to stand. He’s looking down at me; I can’t see it, but I can feel his gaze trained on me. Marco lays a hand on my shoulder gently.

“I’ll leave you be. Just let me know if you change your mind… the offer still stands.”

He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze and releases me. It’s only when I hear his footsteps steadily receding and making their way back up the dock ramp that I feel the panic rise up in my throat.

I don’t know what to say to him, I don’t know what to do, but I can’t stop myself when I turn and call out for him.

“Marco! Marco, wait…”

Marco stops instantly at the sound of my voice.

“Stay…” I say again, my plea slipping off my tongue of its own accord. “Please…”

He doesn’t even hesitate before turning around and marching right back to me, settling himself down once more at my side. He and I are pressed shoulder to shoulder, the bare skin of my arm flush against the cloth of his jacket. As the breeze begins to pick up again, lapping over the surface of the water, brushing its way over my skin, I’m thankful for the slight warmth he provides beside me.

I shiver a bit; a minute movement, but one Marco has obviously noticed. He turns his gaze towards me and shakes his head.

“Tch, you idiot,” he mumbles, before quickly stripping off his jacket and placing it around my shoulders.

“No, no, I’m fine.” I try and tell him, but he shakes his head again, insisting I put it on.

“I’m good,” Marco tells me, lifting his arm and pointing at it, “Look: long sleeve shirt, I’m good. You’re the idiot who wore a t-shirt. So put it on.”

I smile a bit at that, the smallest quirk of my lips, and yet as I do, I feel a twinge flare up in my chest. Wordlessly, I slip the jacket over my arms and snug myself into it a bit. It’s warm from Marco’s body and it smells of him: his cologne and his skin and shampoo and it’s fucking intoxicating.

I shouldn’t, but I let myself bask in it. Just for a moment. My eyes spanning across the blacktop in front of me, I let myself pretend that we’re here under different circumstances. For a moment, I’d like to believe that he and I were comfortable lovers, sneaking away for some intimate moments of privacy. But that isn’t why we’re here, and I know it.

And as we sit here, I can’t help but think about how he hasn’t once mentioned what happened last night.

Maybe he doesn’t remember… He was awfully drunk last night. Maybe the incident in the stairwell is nothing but a fuzzy black spot in his memory. And I’m certainly not going to be the one to remind him of it. I inhale as deeply as I can – an effort simply to calm myself. I let my eyes graze across the water, watching as small little beams of moonlight reflect and glimmer off the top. But I can’t help but note that our knees are still pressed together lightly, and it’s taking a lot of effort on my part to not simply move my hand and rest it atop his leg.

I want to. I know I do. But I can’t.

He hasn’t asked me, but I know he’s wondering. I know he wants to know why I am the way I am. I know he still wonders why I was so cold to him at first, I know he still wonders why I seem to waffle between frantic eagerness to be near him and firm desire to stay away from him. Deep down, I know that maybe it’s time to tell him.

With a brief clench of my fists, I dare to speak.

“I was a freshman…” I start, my eyes trained out ahead of me, the words seeming to fall off my tongue of their own accord. I’m not really thinking right now. Maybe it’s best I just spit it out. Maybe it’s best it’s out there in the open.

Marco’s eyes are on me now, direct and attentive as he always is. I don’t have to look up to know it; I can feel their stare. I can feel the softness of his gaze, I can feel the curiosity behind his eyes.

“I was a freshman,” I stammer out again. “Just starting second semester… I had just started rowing here. Novice…” 

Marco doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need him to. I know he’s listening.

“There was this varsity rower, this senior… Daniel. For a couple months, I really only ever saw him in passing. Hell, I didn’t even know his name at the time. But one day… a lot of people were out sick… some bug was going around or something. Most of our novice boat was out, and a couple guys from the varsity boat were out. Levi wanted to get out on the water anyway, and so he decided that he would just put me and Bertholdt in the varsity boat to sub for the missing guys. That way at least the varsity could go out on the water.”

I pause for a breath, my gaze still fixated out across the water, at a nothing point far away from where I’m sitting. Somewhere far away so that I might be able to remove myself from this moment, detach myself, pretend this moment belongs to someone else.

I lick my lips and force myself to continue.

“Bert and I were so nervous…” I chuckle lightly, hanging my head a bit and shaking it, “Two inexperienced little novice, just shoved into this amazing varsity men’s boat, full of experienced, talented rowers… But they were all pretty nice guys. Anyway, I sat behind Daniel in the bow, and… he and I seemed to get along pretty well.”

I have to stop again, the small, forced, barely-there smile fading from my lips in an instant. Because whether I like to admit it or not, my sexuality has never explicitly come up between Marco and me. And regardless of what he thinks or assumes about me, whatever sentence I say next, I know it will expose me.

I’ve never been one to hide who I am. But with Marco, it’s been a case of sheer omission… Omission simply for the sake of not letting him glimpse too close. Omission of my sexuality as a pathetic, futile attempt to mask my feelings.

I know that whatever I say next will lay me bare.

With a shaky breath, I dare to turn my head, and I’m met only with Marco’s eyes. They’re gentle and soft, focused completely on me as I speak even in the darkness. And there’s a moment there when I wonder if perhaps I should just leave this be. Perhaps it’s best to stop here, stay quiet, say no more. Let things stay the way they were. But how far can silence really get me? And there’s something about the way Marco’s looking at me, something tender and understanding that makes me only want to tell him more, despite all my reservations.

I turn my gaze away from him again. I can’t look at him.

“We got along really well, actually. He wound up even inviting me to a few parties. And I was just this little freshman. Not a big drinker, had never been a partier… But he wanted me to go, and so I went because I liked him and I wanted him to like me. One night, we were both a little tipsy, and we were heading back to the dorms, and he insisted on walking me back. Wanted to make sure I was safe. It was… it was sweet…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Marco nod.

This shouldn’t be so hard to say.

“We get to my dorm, and as I’m fobbing into the building, he grabs my hand and… and he kisses me.”

I have to stop there. I’m silent now and waiting. Just waiting for the ball to drop. For Marco to scoff. To call me a fag. To get up and leave. To say that I should never talk to him again. But he doesn’t. He just nods slowly again, and I can’t help but turn back to look at him once more. His face hasn’t even changed: he’s got that same expression, warm and open, ushering me silently to continue, to tell him as much as I want to… to tell him as much as I need to.

And so I swallow, pushing down my fear, and speak again, this time letting my eyes stay locked with his.

“And I liked it and I let him… It was nice. He kissed me and pulled away and said he’d text me the next day. Said he had a good time. It was… it was great… I saw him again the next few nights. And things went a little further. Kissing, making out, and after a couple weeks things got physical.”

I can feel the tightness in my chest building up, like the waters behind a levee, pushing and rising and threatening to spill over, but the levee is already cracked and I can’t stop the words from flowing.

“But things changed after that… After we got physical, the next time I saw him at crew, he ignored me. I mean, completely. Wouldn’t speak to me… or acknowledge me… went out of his way to not even  _look_ at me. Afterwards, I confronted him about it because… because I was mad. Just the night before he had called me ‘baby’, and he’d told me he was happy whenever he was with me. I was mad. And he tried to tell me he was sorry. He told me that he wasn’t out yet. Said his friends could be kind of… homophobic and he didn’t really know what to do around them. And I forgave him because… because I understood. You know, I knew that pain and I knew that confusion. I just kinda thought, who am I to make him come out before he’s ready?”

The waters are at the top of the embankment now, splashing over the levee as my words pour from my mouth, trickling through the cracks in the concrete, flooding me from the inside out.

Deep down, I can’t help but wonder if Marco is putting the pieces together yet. If he’s realized exactly what this story has to do with him. If he’s figured out exactly why I’m telling him this. But I can’t stop now… There’s no stopping it now. It’s too late. The dam is breaking and it’s rushing out faster than I can control it.

“So we kept on like that. We’d go out in secret, have sex in secret when his roommates were gone… But each time he would see me out, he would snub me. I tried once… at practice… just to say hey to him. And all he could say was  _“What do you want, faggot?”_ and… I didn’t know what to do. So I didn’t do anything… I just let him keep on. He’d be cruel in public, and apologize profusely later. In private, he adored me. In public, he hated me. And I... I just. Let him. All semester. There was one time when I was just… at my limit with it, I couldn’t do it anymore. And I told Daniel that. I told him “I can’t do this anymore”. And he begged me to stay with him, he begged and pleaded, and he said... he fucking said that he  _loved_ me.”

I have to stop there for a moment, I have to catch my breath. The waters keep pouring over, keep swelling up and over my head, swamping me and taking me over and I just need a moment to  _breathe_ . I know I’m almost panting; the sickening twisting feeling in my gut a little too overwhelming. But I clench my teeth, tell myself to pull it together, to push my head back above the water. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to continue.

“He told me he loved me, and I believed him. And I let him keep on the way he was. Reiner noticed, Reiner always notices, and he tried to bring it up a few times, but I would just lie to him. Tell him it was nothing, no big deal. Tell him I was fine.”

I turn my head away, because there’s a look on Marco’s face that I can’t read. A look I just can’t understand. And I already feel like I’m drowning, the levee broken and pouring waters down into the valleys, and I just can’t look at him anymore.

“When Daniel graduated, there was some girl with him at the ceremony. I had only gone to the ceremony to try and wish him well. To see maybe what might become of us. But he wouldn’t let me near him, he kept that girl glued to his waist all afternoon. When I finally did manage to get him alone, I tried just to tell him goodbye. I just wanted to make it quick and easy, part on good terms, I guess. I tried to tell him that I wished we’d had something more, something better. And he told me… he told me to leave him the fuck alone. He told me that I was a problem. I was a problem that he just couldn’t deal with. He told me I was sick and delusional. He said we had never had  _anything_ together. Said that I was just a… a stupid faggot with sick fantasies… And… I never heard from him after that…”

I clench my teeth hard, feeling my throat tighten up. My lips are trembling a bit and my eyes are burning, but I won’t cry. I didn’t cry then and I won’t cry now.

Marco hasn’t said anything this whole time, and he’s still quiet now. I’m afraid now to look back at him. Afraid now of what he might ask me. Afraid that he might ask me if that’s why I was cold to him. Afraid he might realize that I have been terrified of him, purely petrified of how I feel for him. Afraid that if he looks at me, he’ll know I feel for him the same way I felt for Daniel. Afraid that if he looks at me, he’ll see me the way Daniel always saw me. A problem he has to deal with. Some stupid lovesick kid. Some stupid queer with delusional fantasies.

But when Marco speaks, I feel it deep within my chest. The dam has burst and everything I had held inside me so tightly has overflowed. The waters might drown me, might drag me down until I can’t breathe. But when he speaks, it’s like a fucking dry spot in the endless sea.

“He never deserved you, Jean. He…  _never_ _once_ … fucking deserved you.” Marco says with a firmness in his voice unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him before.

I can’t help the small choked little breath that slips past my lips at what he’s said.

“He didn’t deserve you and he never will.” Marco tells me again.

Everyone had told me Daniel was cruel. Everyone had told me that I needed someone better. Everyone had told me a million times over that I never deserved what Daniel did to me.

But Marco’s words are different. I’ve heard a million variations of how I didn’t deserve what Daniel did to me. And how  _I_ deserved someone better. But never this.  Maybe it seems like I’m splitting hairs here… but in this moment, it truly feels different and significant. For so long, I had viewed Daniel as this amazing person. Handsome, charismatic, kind, beautiful… everything that a pitiful soul like me could only hope to have. I always believed Daniel deserved anyone he wanted, even after everything he had done. He deserved the love of anyone he wanted, and mine was merely a speck in the grand scheme of things. But Marco doesn’t think so. And inside, I can feel the last pieces of the levees, the walls, the dams, every last piece crumbling beneath the waves as Marco tells me so.  

“Do you hear me?” Marco says again, and now I can’t help but look up at him. “He  _never_ deserved  _you_ .”

I bite my lip and hang my head a bit, trying my best to fight the pain from old memories that threatens to bubble up, like freshly picked scabs threatening to bleed.

But Marco’s hand is suddenly on my jaw, and he’s lifting my head, and forcing my gaze up to meet his.

“Look at me, Jean. Nothing that he could ever do in life would make him deserve someone like you. No matter what he does for the rest of his fucking life, he will  _never_ even be good enough to stand in your goddamn presence, you hear me?”

I try to laugh at that, but all that comes out is an exasperated, desperate breath. Marco breathes out slowly and I’m not sure how to read the look on his face. He looks… angry… upset… and surely it can’t be for me, it surely can’t be because of what I’ve told him.

But I’ve never seen Marco look this way. Bothered and upset, and like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His breathing is steady and hard, and his hand still hasn’t left my jaw.

I should get up. I should leave now. Because I can’t get a read on Marco anymore and all I can think about is the way he had looked at me in the stairwell. And it’s all I can do to stop from wondering if he’s thinking about it too. Because I think he knows.

Marco  _knows_ why I told him about Daniel. He knows  _exactly_ why it’s relevant. And I should really just go now.

But I don’t.

Because Marco’s hand is still on my jaw, and before I can even stop myself, I lift my own hand and touch it gently to his wrist, my fingers just lightly draped across his skin, just barely hanging on. Marco’s expression changes quickly at my touch, moving instantly from heated, flustered, and upset to soft and mild as he looks at me. He breathes out easily and I would give every last part of myself to just keep looking at him, for just a moment longer. Just let me look at him for a little bit longer.

I can’t do this. The waters have dragged me down. I’m too far down to find my way back to the top.

I know I can’t do this. But Marco’s here with me, wrapped up in the deepest of my trenches, and he hasn’t left yet. 

I can’t do this; I shouldn’t do this.

Beautiful things come at steep and painful prices.

But Marco isn’t like that… Marco is here and tangible, his hand resting against my jaw like it’s my only support. He’s gentle and understanding. He’s looking right at me, looking right through me, and I just can’t stop myself.

_Fuck it_ , I think to myself, lifting my other hand. My fingers grapple firmly at his nape.

I don’t even think before I crush his mouth against my own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god this chapter... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. 
> 
> But hey! There's still a cliffhanger, but we finally have a kiss! Don't hate me. Thank you guys so much! I hope you enjoyed it. :) 
> 
> (Also, I'm sorry for the use of the "f-word" (and not fuck, cause I love that word). I don't really like to use it, but Daniel's kind of a douchebag, and it's something a douchebag would say. So yeah. 
> 
> As usual, I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and love meeting fellow jeanmarco/SNK fans. 
> 
> Thanks, y'all!


	13. Washing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//There is love in your body but you can’t hold it in_  
>  _It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin_  
>  _Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks_  
>  _And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts//_  
>  Florence & the Machine || Hardest of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Terms:**  
>  **Gunwale:** Pronounced “gunnel”. It is the upper edge of the side of the boat.
> 
> If anyone is interested, I attempted to draw the scene on the dock from the last chapter.   
> You can [find it here](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/108977450383/so-i-decided-to-draw-the-scene-on-the-dock-from). (It isn't super amazing, just a quick little sketch, but I felt compelled, so yeah. Be gentle.)

Sometimes, I wish that the water would take me. There are moments when I can almost feel the blackness as it seeps into my lungs, and I want so badly to believe that I am drowning. Maybe I am drowning. Maybe this is truly what it feels like. Hazy and overwhelming: terrifying as reality creeps its way into my body. It isn’t thrashing, it isn’t fighting. It’s silent and desolate as it takes me down, as the toxic tar seeps in through my mouth.

I should have known better.

I can’t simply slip away though. Reality always comes again, always sinks back in with bruising force, even as the last puff of air threatens to leave my lungs. I have to breathe. I’m on the docks. Please, god, just let me breathe. I’m on the docks with Marco, hand against his neck, holding onto him as if he might be the thing to pull me back up to the surface. But I know he isn’t, and my grip falters.

My fingers tremble at Marco’s nape, the very tips of them just barely grazing the short hairs there. I can’t open my eyes, too afraid of what might be around me, too afraid of the way they might burn against the even, pulsing currents that are dragging me down.

Mouth pressed hot and hard against Marco’s unmoving lips, I know what I’ve done. 

Marco’s hand drops from my jaw in an instant, and my skin has never felt colder than it does now. In the absence of Marco’s warmth, all that remains is the dank of the water where I feel I belong.

_God, no, Marco. Please. Please, Marco, pull me back up. Please let this be okay. I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to sink any further._

But it’s too late. Maybe I’m too far gone. Too paralyzed from the affliction of his mouth.

And he doesn’t pull me back.

It’s only been a couple seconds, a couple brief seconds of enduring this misbegotten kiss, but I know I’m sinking. I hear him inhale through his nose. I feel his lips against mine. I feel him. And I feel his hands pressing against my chest... touching me... pushing me…

Pushing me away from him...

And that’s that.

I don’t mean to break, I don’t mean to fall apart, but does anyone ever mean to?

I don’t mean to beg, but I’m lost, paralyzed by him and sinking fast.

I don’t mean to whimper or tear up as Marco ushers us apart. I don’t mean to cling or try and lean back in, but I can’t help myself.

“No, p-please…” I whisper, unable to even open my eyes. “Don’t… please.”

I don’t know what I’m asking for, voice cracked and broken. As he pushes me again, I am raw in ways I never wanted to be. Raw in ways I never intended to be again. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

_Marco, no… Don’t push me away, don’t let me go. Don’t tell me this can’t happen._

“Please…” I whimper again, fingers shaking as my hands drop to his chest, twisting uneasily in his shirt, unable to release him. I’ve got nowhere to go but down, and I’m desperate. Raw and unable to accept what I’ve done, unable to accept that I’ve acted wrongly.

My eyes won’t open, but my cheeks are wet, and I don’t even know when it happened. Maybe the waters have finally reached my eyes, maybe it’s pouring out from inside of me, but I can’t stop it. I can’t stop when I try to lean towards him again. Marco pushes away once more, gentle as he always is, he edges me away with a tenderness I cannot understand.

“Jean, I can’t…” he croaks out. He sounds sad, he sounds broken. His voice is low and timid, like he doesn’t mean to say it. But I know why he does, and I know why he must.

Just barely, I force my eyes open. My vision is blurry, obscured by the wetness in my eyes. But I can still see him shake his head, I can still see the moment when he looks away from me.

“I can’t… It-it isn’t r-” Marco starts, still shaking his head.

I don’t know what it is that spurs me, but I pull away in a rush. I jerk myself away from him before he can even finish his sentence. Maybe it’s my final struggle to stay afloat, to try and fight for myself, to try and pull myself back up, to bite back against the paralyzing toxin that wants to course through me and render me helpless in the swells.

Body heavy with the sudden, crushing weight of what I’ve done, I scoot away from him, unthinking. My breath is suddenly heavy – uneven, and desperate. I’m an animal, frightened and frantic and struggling just to breathe, and I just need to get away.

“I-I’m… I’m s-I’m sorry…” I stammer out mindlessly, eyes unfocused, legs fumbling up underneath myself as I try to stand. I’m dizzy; my head is light, too light, too overcome. He was dangerous and I should have known better.

No… No, that’s… that’s not right.

Marco wasn’t dangerous.

_I_ was dangerous.  _I_ did this.

I can’t look at him, I’m dazed, I’m out of it, and I have to look anywhere but at his face.

Because he is beautiful, so beautiful, and I  _made_ him a danger to myself.

“I’m sorry…” I breathe out, feet already fumbling back and away from him. I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.

I’m sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry that I’m running away. I’m sorry that I branded you into something lethal. I’m sorry, Marco; I acted wrongly.

“Jean, wait, ple-” He says quickly, but I don’t hear him. His words are fuzzy to my ears, muffled and dampened, like I’m underwater, and I can’t catch my breath.

“I hav- I have to go…”

“Jean, no! Wai-”

Marco’s rising to his feet, and I think he might still be speaking, but I’m already moving. I think I’m running, but I honestly can’t tell. Everything is a blur. And Marco is nothing but a dark figure on the dock, a distant point behind me as I flee.

**::**

Deep down, I know that this isn’t Marco’s fault. Sitting alone on the floor of my bedroom, my back against the baseboard of my bed, I know this isn’t his fault. It’s  _mine_ and it’s sinking in like the weight that dragged me down through the mire.

Marco is good and kind. Marco is gentle. He was dangerous but not in the ways I thought he was. I’m realizing with paralyzing clarity that the truth is… he was only ever dangerous because of  _me_ ; because  _I_ envisioned him as deadly. In my mind, I made his teeth into vicious fangs, turned his freckles into drops of poison begging to be tasted. I made his gaze piercing, his colors bright, and gave him barbs under the guise that I was protecting myself.

I believed him to be dangerous to me, just like Daniel once was. I made him into something to be avoided. But I didn’t stay away… I couldn’t. I pricked myself on the very barbs that I had created. I pressed my lips flush against the fangs I had so unthinkingly forced into his mouth. I lapped up the poison I pretended he had flowing through his veins, and by the end, I could only succumb and sink down when he couldn’t hold me up.

And I wonder why I get hurt.

Marco isn’t bad. He isn’t poison. He isn’t Daniel, and he never was. I shaped him into that role, and I’m paying for it. I can’t hate him… I can’t even pretend to  _want_ to hate him, because Marco never  _asked_ for the role I so carelessly shoved upon him.

I viewed him as the raging river that would destroy me and then I dared to test the waters.

I’m down too far now; the silt of the riverbed is threatening to claim me. And I’m much too heavy to find the surface again.

Marco was beautiful…  _is_ beautiful. But I’m the one who attached a steep price to his head.

**::**

It takes most of Sunday for me to fully accept what happened in the late hours on Saturday night. And Monday comes way before I’m ready to deal with it. After cognitive psych, I honestly want nothing more than to simply crawl back into my bed and ignore the world for a little bit longer. But I can’t. I learned this lesson the hard way already: I can’t avoid Marco. It doesn’t work. And plus, with spring break fast approach, it means that midterms are upcoming and the final races of the season will be coming up after the interim. Missing class or crew would be detrimental at this point.

I have to be an adult about this. Skipping out isn’t an option this time. I will put on a brave face and I will handle things… It’s more than I’ve done so far, honestly, and I suppose it’s about time I accepted the responsibility. And maybe with some luck, Marco will be avoiding me.

I skip lunch, waiting around in my dorm and reading over today’s powerpoint before heading to Neuro. I get there early, the first one in the room, and with a sigh, I settle down into my seat. Maybe the time alone before class will steel me a bit, will give me an edge to keep my head above water. I can only sit and think, wishing to myself that I could fast forward and just be done with this day.

My classmates steadily begin to filter in, but Marco arrives  _almost_ late and it’s so unlike him it takes me a little by surprise. He slips in just as Pixis is preparing to start the lecture. I glance up at him as he enters and attempt to harden myself. I can’t avoid him like I tried to before and I know it. But as I’m looking at him now, even after everything that happened, it is frightening and sobering when I realize I still don’t think I could stand to ignore him again. I don’t  _want_ to detach myself from him.

I watch as Marco hesitates before making his way down the steps and sliding into my row. I’m the only one in it and I’m wondering where exactly he’s planning on sitting. Marco says nothing as he moves closer to me and settles silently into the seat beside me.

This is… unexpected.

My chest feels too full, filled up like I might not be able to breathe, and yet I do. Slowly but surely, I breathe. Without a word, Marco pulls his notebook and pencil out of his bag and spares me a brief glance. He forces a small, barely there smile onto his face before mumbling softly.

“Hi…”

I can’t help but think of the last time he whispered like that to me. Lying on a stupid cushion palette at three in the morning, barely awake, hazy and calm with sleep. The single word was hushed and quiet then, just like it is now, and yet it’s so entirely different now. It’s different this time. He sounds scared.

“Hi.” I mutter back to him, and I never once thought that a single word could be so difficult to say.

Class begins, and we don’t speak again.

**::**

Practice is rough in more ways than I can list, but I am surprisingly grateful for the difficulty of our workout. As Levi pushes and presses us onward through high-intensity sprints, I’m thankful that I can detach my brain and focus solely on my form, on the way my blade pulses through the water. I can focus solely on the searing pain coursing through my muscles as I push my body past its limits. I’m thankful that it’s all I really have to focus on, I’m thankful I can detach a bit from Marco’s figure rowing hard in front of me.

There are fleeting moments though… Silent, wordless instances when Marco turns to glance back at me during a break, when he looks like he wants to speak. But he never does. And I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. The longer I sit behind him, the longer I push my body past the point of breaking, the more I understand how wrong I was. How wrong I was to ever label Marco negatively, to ever convince myself of his dangers.

I push myself harder today than I have in ages, and I’m ready to collapse by the end of it. But despite all that, I know deep down that Marco and I were… off… today. We both pushed and pushed to the point of exhaustion, but the click we’d had before was simply absent today. I wish it didn’t bother me as much as it does.

Levi doesn’t call us out on it individually… During our post-practice chat, he mentions that the boat needs to recompose our focus and really tie in that cohesion and unity we have with each other. But he never mentions Marco or me specifically, even though I’m sure his gaze lingers on the two of us for a little too long. The fact that this is the first time Marco and I have even been slightly out of sync is probably our saving grace. If it keeps up, we’re sure to get a talking to one-on-one whether we like it or not.

I’m not exactly hopeful that tomorrow he and I will do any better.

When coach releases us, even though he’s standing right beside me, Marco and I still don’t speak. He shoots me a short-lived smile and nods at me, turning his attention towards his duffel bag. I don’t question him, turning to my own workout bag and making sure I have all my stuff. As I leave to head back to my dorm, I can’t help but glance back, catching the faintest glimpse of a questioning, unsure look on Marco’s face as he watches me retreat. I sigh softly, divert my gaze, and keep on walking.

It’s all I can do.

_Forget me, Marco. I did you wrongly. Ignore me: do what I can’t. Let me sink down, let the currents ebb and flow across my body until there’s nothing left but bones and empty emotion. Because I don’t think I have it in me to let you go this time._

Maybe if he decides he’s better off without me, he’ll be the one to detach. 

**::**

Marco and I continue this way over the next couple weeks. I honestly expect everything to feel miserable in his absence, but they don’t. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t exactly pleasant or enjoyable, and “awkward” is a definite understatement, but it’s… it’s tolerable, at the very least.

Tolerable isn’t great, but I can manage it.

We don’t hang out outside of class or crew; we don’t go eat meals together or hang out in each other’s dorms. I suppose it’s to be expected after what happened… But at the same time, despite our distance, there doesn’t seem to be any animosity between us, and that is something I wasn’t expecting. During class and during practice we manage each other’s presence well enough. He still sits next to me every day in Neuro, but we never talk, nothing more than greetings or goodbyes, and we never walk to crew together anymore. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I frequently see him in the hall as he emerges from the photography lab, but all he ever does is shoot me a smile, nod, and head on his way.

I can’t read him, and sometimes I just hate it. Sometimes I wish he would just come right out and tell me that he hates me. It would make letting go so much easier. He has every right to hate me, too; I certainly wouldn’t blame him if he did. But right now, he and I just seem to exist in a kind of stasis, floating down just above the riverbed, and waiting for one of us to head back to the surface while the other one sinks down into the silt.

I want Marco to float back up. He already sunk down into the trenches with me, but he couldn’t be the one to drag me back up. So he has to go, he needs to go back and find the surface. He deserves as much. I wish so badly for him to release me: not because I want him to (because I desperately don’t want that), but because I can’t be the one to do it and I know that he deserves it. If I can’t reach the surface with him, then so be it, I will happily let him go without me.

Who knows, though? Maybe this is how Marco lets go.

But even though I know it’s best, even though I feel that maybe he and I were meant to be parallel lines: existing together but never crossing… Even with that knowledge, I can’t deny that I miss him.

I miss him a lot.

Sitting right beside him in the quiet lecture hall, the two of us pouring over the midterm in front of us, I miss him. Sitting behind him in the boat, my eyes grazing over the expanse of his shoulders, I miss him. I wish I didn’t… I wish that I didn’t so pointedly notice how he hardly looks at me since that night on the docks. I wish sometimes I could go to him and simply say that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry, Marco. I didn’t mean it.

(Even though I did mean it…)

Please, don’t hate me. Please, don’t let me go. 

(Even though I know you should...)

I’m a walking contradiction: let me go, please don’t let go; hate me, but please don’t hate me.

I’ve never been good with things like this.

But he deserves to let me go if he wants to.

**::**

The last few days before spring break pass quickly enough. My professors, for the most part, decide to go easy on us with the approaching break, and even Pixis doesn’t saddle us with a ridiculous amount of reading to complete. The most I have to do over break is finish up my painting project and that should be easy enough over the course of a week and a half, I figure.

Crew on the other hand is a different story. With a break approaching, Levi is pushing us hard, and even with his fastidious coaching, I can’t pretend like the change in the dynamic between Marco and me hasn’t persisted. We still row together fine, but that click, that nuance, that perfect synchronicity just isn’t there anymore, and I can’t pretend that it is. I’m quick to blame myself entirely: I know I’ve slipped up plenty of times as of late. I’ve lost my focus, I’ve let myself rush the slide or catch too early, but even so… it isn’t just me. Armin has had to get onto Marco about his pacing and his stroke rate more than once.

By the end of practice on the Friday before spring break, I can tell Levi is at his limit with us. As our team huddle wraps up and after Hanji has finished passing out the workouts we’re meant to do over break, I do my best to duck out quickly. The rest of our teammates are filtering out steadily, and I begin to gather my bag, my phone, and my wallet, ready to get out and as far away as I can. Marco seems to be doing the same, wordlessly stowing his things and slinging his bag over his shoulder. My own duffel in my hand, I don’t make it two steps out of the boat bay when I hear Levi call for us.

“Bodt, Kirschstetin. Stay back for a minute.”

Levi doesn’t sound angry or even fed up; he doesn’t sound like he’s ready to shout at us. But his voice has that tone: that pointed, meaningful tone that tells me Marco and I are about to get called out. With a small, quiet sigh, I clench my eyes, doing my best to resolve myself before I turn around and head back into the boat bay where Levi is standing and waiting for us. Marco does the same without a word. We approach our coach, and Levi thankfully waits until he’s sure our teammates have all left before he begins.

He is calm and controlled when he speaks to us but I can’t help but bristle up.

“So, you two…” Levi starts, “You’re a very good stern pair.”

“Thank you, sir.” Marco says dutifully, the tone of his voice resembling that of a soldier who recognizes an upcoming lecture thinly veiled by a compliment from his commanding officer.

“You race extremely well together. And these last few weeks, both of your erg scores have continued to improve. I’m very pleased with that.”

Levi pauses for a beat and I clench my jaw in the arduous break.

“These last two weeks specifically, you both have performed extremely well off the water.”

“Thank y-” Marco starts, but Levi doesn’t let him finish.

“ _Off_ the water, Bodt.  _On_ the water is an entirely different story. And one that we need to discuss. If you two were some novice, I would chalk this up to inexperience or end of the season nerves. But I know what you two can do as a pair, I know what you’re capable of on the water, and frankly, I haven’t seen that from either of you these last two weeks.”

Levi breathes a short sigh, lifts his chin a bit and stares at the two of us. I always find it astounding how easily that man can stare down his nose at someone, despite his diminutive stature. But he manages, and he certainly isn’t wasting the opportunity to do so to me and Marco at this very moment.

“Now you two listen to me, I don’t know what’s going on with you and frankly, I don’t give a damn. But you need to get it sorted out and  _pronto_ . You two have been off-kilter in the boat for far too long for it to be a fluke, and I want it dealt with.”

Neither Marco nor I dare to say anything, but in the silence, I swear I can hear Marco gulp. I dare a brief glance over at him, but he’s stone-faced, staring straight at Levi. I divert my own gaze back to my coach.

“There are two races left in this season, gentlemen, and whatever is hindering your performance together needs to get tossed to the wayside, got it? Keep your personal issues off the goddamn water. I expect improvement when you get back from break. If you two don’t get your shit together, then we’ll be looking at a new line up for the next two races.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco falter, his head hanging a bit, breaking his gaze with Levi.  

“Yes, sir.” I respond, as coolly as I can, attempting to respond for the both of us.

“Yes, sir…” Marco mumbles softly, still not raising his head to look at Levi.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed. Have a good break, gentlemen.”

I nod curtly to Levi and trudge out quickly as soon as he allows it. Marco is fast on my heels as I move. I walk as swiftly as I can without actually running, if only for the sake of not having to acknowledge what just happened. There’s always that dread in the back of my mind that Marco will actually want to talk about this now. A fear that he will follow, stop me, demand that we discuss things, and I’m simply not ready for it.

But Marco doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t even try. And even though I want to be grateful that he allows me to retreat without incident, the part inside of me that is always yearning for his presence and approval is disappointed.

I have to remind myself that this is what he and I need.

**::**

Levi’s little discussion with Marco and I yesterday didn’t do much except remind me of exactly how far I have let Marco creep underneath my skin. The discussion about our lack of synchronicity had also served to remind me that I’m essentially back to square one with him. It reminds me painfully of _why_ I’m back at square one, as well, making sure I remember each and every gritty, vivid detail of what happened between us on the docks.

I sigh, curling myself up on the couch. My only comfort is the fact that I’ll soon have our suite to myself for a few days. I’m hoping that the solitude will allow me to do whatever it is that I need to do so that I can let go… so I can move on… for both my own and Marco’s sakes.

Connie had left right after crew yesterday and Reiner and Bertholdt are planning on leaving sometime today. I know the two of them went to breakfast about an hour ago, and currently, I’m just doing my best to relax until they return. It’s merely out of desperation to clear my mind and keep my thoughts off Marco that I turn on the television. Mindless TV is a poor way to forget about all the horrid consequences of my brash and idiotic actions, but at least it’s something. But the Netflix queue is only mildly appealing, nothing at all really reaching out and grabbing my attention as I scroll through. I huff softly. It isn’t like what I pick matters anyway, and so I wind up simply selecting some random movie, not even paying attention to what exactly I’ve chosen. It’s not like I’m really gunna be that focused on the damn thing.

The noise is welcome company, though, even if I’m hardly paying attention. But at some point during the movie, with my eyes unfocused and staring vaguely in the direction of the television, I hear the door of our suite open as Reiner and Bertholdt return. Absently, I hear them both greet me, and I  _think_ I reply… but I’m not 100% sure on that one though.

The two of them flitter around the suite for a little while, moving in and out of their bedroom, gathering items from the bathroom and a few snacks from our kitchenette; I can only assume they’re doing the last of their packing for Spring Break. I’m not exactly sure how much time passes, but at some point, I feel the couch cushions dip beside me as Reiner settles down on the opposite side of the couch. I turn my gaze and let it rest on him.

“Hey,” I say to him softly, merely as an effort to pretend like I’ve been alert and aware of my surroundings.

“Hey. How’s the movie?” Reiner asks casually.

I shrug limply. I haven’t exactly been paying attention to it, but I’m sure it was fine.

“It’s alright, I guess.”

“Yeeeeah… cause it ended a while ago…” He starts, “You’ve been staring at the Netflix menu for like 25 minutes, dude.”

With a confused blink, I jerk my gaze towards the television. Fuck. He’s right. All that’s on the screen in front of me is the goddamn selection menu. Hell, the screen has even dimmed itself down into power-save mode because I’ve waited so long to press any buttons or make a selection. I swallow thickly and snatch up the controller, idly beginning to skim through some of the suggested titles. I do my best not to look over at Reiner, not quite willing to acknowledge that he had caught me zoning out. 

"Sooo…” the blond drawls out, “You wanna tell me what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up.” I tell him half-heartedly, not looking over at him, keeping my eyes forward as I skim through the movie selections.

“Ah, come on, man. You know better. You  _know_ I can always tell when you’re full of shit. And right now, you look like you’ve got a damn stable-full of manure you gotta muck out.”

I pause, turning my head over to look at him, my eyebrow quirked.

“…Was that… was that a horse joke?” I ask, displaying mock offense to his comment. Reiner furrows his brow for a moment before he speaks.

“You know, it wasn’t at first, but I like that. So yes, yes, it was a horse joke.”

I can only glare at him, doing my best to keep the small smile that’s threatening the corners of my mouth at bay. Reiner grins at me and leaves over, giving my shoulder a gentle slug.

“Come on, Jeanbo, what’s up? I’ve kinda tried to give your space a bit, but the moping has gone on for a while now… So talk to me.”

With a short sigh, I pull my legs up onto the couch and fold them underneath myself. Without bothering to select anything to watch, I set the controller down on the arm of the couch, diverting my gaze away from Reiner’s. I bite my lip. I suppose there’s no real point in lying to him anyway.

“I uh… I told Marco about Daniel…” I breathe out.

“Oh?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay so… what did he say?” Reiner asks me.

_Good god, what didn’t he say? What didn’t he say that wasn’t important, that didn’t ease my fears and my anxiety? What didn’t he say that made me feel okay, made me feel better… made me feel as if perhaps it was alright if the waters I had so forcefully dammed up were to spill over._

But I can’t tell Reiner that.

So I shrug.

“Just the usual.”

“He didn’t freak out or anything, right?”

“Nah…”

“Okay… So…” Reiner pauses, “What’s the issue, then?”

I have to exhale at his question, giving myself a moment to allow the breath to leave my lungs as I drag my hand along my cheek. I drag it over my mouth, subconsciously attempting to wall up my words again. Hesitant, always so very hesitant to speak.

“I uh... kissed him…” I whisper into my fingers, only dropping my hand once the words have slipped out. I glance over at Reiner gingerly. His eyes are definitely a little wider now than they were before, and his mouth is just barely parted.

“Oooh, shit, really?” He asks in awe.

“Yuuuppp.” I drawl regretfully, ending the ‘p’ with an exasperated pop. Reiner shifts on the cushions of the couch, turning and angling his body to face me completely. He leans up off the arm of the couch to lean closer to me.

“So- so what did he do??”

I glare at him at that, silently berating him for asking such a goddamn stupid question.

“The fuck do you think he did? He pushed me away.” I tell him, my voice snider than I had really meant for it to be.

Reiner just pauses, his brow furrowing again, staring over at me for a beat before he replies.

“Pushed you awa- wait, really??”

He almost sounds as if he doesn’t believe me. That figures. Why the hell would I lie about a fuck-up this big?

“Yes, really. What the hell else would he have done, Reiner?”

The blond doesn’t say anything for another moment. But he leans back slowly against the couch cushions and sighs, dragging his hand through his short hair.

“Okay… wow. Well… Yeah. I guess that kinda explains why you two have been so… off… lately…”

“Yyyup.”

“Shot in the dark here, but I’m also guessing you haven’t talked about it with him at all?”

“Nnnope.”

“Damn, dude… Did he, did he say anything? When you kissed him, I mean?”

I shake my head.

“Not really. He just pushed me away and told me that he couldn’t.”

“Nothing else?”

“I dunno, I ducked out pretty fast.”

“What do you mean?”

I look at him, that same look that tells him I’m tired of him asking questions that he already knows the answers to. But I sigh, and respond anyway.

“I mean, I ran. I panicked and I ran.”

“How long ago did this happen exactly?”

I shrug.

“Couple weeks, I guess. Right after the party.”

“…Wow. Okay.” Reiner pauses, his hand absently running back and forth through his buzzcut before dropping it down to his nape. He scratches the skin idly. “Do you, do you want me to, I dunno, talk to him or anything for you?”

“No!” I say – replying a bit too quickly and a bit too loudly than I had meant to. “No… I just… I just want to forget about all this and hope that he’ll do the same. Maybe it’ll pass, you know? I just want to let it pass and then maybe we can get somewhat back to normal, maybe get back into sync in the damn boat…”

Reiner breathes a length exhale.

“Honestly, I doubt you’ll be able to fix that without talking to him, but that’s just my two cents…”

I shrug, diverting my gaze down and away from my friend, before conceding his point with a nod.

“Yeah. I know.”

Reiner is quiet for another moment before I hear him sigh again softly. I dare to glance back up at him. He’s looking at me sympathetically: a mixture of concern and understanding on his face.

“You want a hug?” He asks gently, his voice as genuine as it is always is.

I can’t help but scoff at first, diverting my gaze and attempting to quickly play off his offer with a laugh. But the scoff dies quickly in my throat and I feel my shoulders begin to slump of their own accord. My face falls, silence settles over me, and I nod steadily.

“Yeah, kinda…” I concede, not looking up at him again. But I feel his hand grab my shoulder almost as soon as the words have left my lips, already dragging me over towards him for a hug.

“Come on, give Mama Braun a hug.”

Reiner always hugs like his life depends on it. Every ounce of sincerity that man has in him is channeled into this one embrace, and honestly, I am completely okay with it. Arms wound around me, I allow him to squeeze me tightly, and I can’t help but smile a bit. For all my bitching and moaning, I don’t think I would trade Reiner for anyone else. Except maybe for Bertholdt… But the two of them are kind of a package deal, so I doubt I’m going to have to worry about picking one or the other.

Suddenly, as if my very thoughts had summoned him, I feel Bertholdt pat the top of my head gently as he walks past the couch and heads towards the kitchen. Reiner releases me with a comforting pat on the shoulder and a soft smile.

“Feel better?” He asks as Bertholdt returns to the couch, a beer in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. He plops down between Reiner and myself, edging his boyfriend back over to his side of the couch as he passes me the beer. I can’t help but smile at him.

“I’m definitely getting there.” I answer Reiner as I take the beer and pop off the top. With a gentle sip, I sigh. “Nothing like an 11am beer. Thanks, Bert.”

“No problem. You going home for break, Jean?” Bertholdt asks me, uncapping his Gatorade and taking a quick sip. I take another swig of the beer he gave me and shake my head.

“Nah. The rentals are in Prague.”

“Prague??” The brunette asks, “Damn, what for?”

“Work, supposedly. Mom’s got some big corporate thing going on there. I think it’s just an excuse to vacation on her company’s dime.” I say with a laugh.

“Psh, can’t say that I blame her.” Reiner chuckles, swiftly snatching the Gatorade from Bertholdt’s grip and stealing a large gulp of it.

“No kidding.” I tell him. “What about you two? Whose turn is it this time to terrorize the other’s family?”

Bertholdt opens his mouth, ready to answer, but Reiner quickly butts in before he can utter a single word.

“Ahem, Bertl’s parents have the  _pleasure_ – thank you  _very_ much – of seeing my beautiful face this break.”

Bertholdt rolls his eyes, turns to me and raises his fingers. He signs a quick air quote and mouths  _“Pleasure”_ and I try not to laugh. Reiner jabs an elbow into his rib.

“What about Connie? He left yesterday, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s being offered up as a sacrifice to the Ravenor’s Household.”

“Finally meeting Sash’s parents then, huh? About time.” I mumble.

I take another small sip of my beer, thinking dejectedly to myself that I really should have known something like that… It only just occurs to me exactly how much I seem to have withdrawn myself from my friends since the dock incident. I make a mental note to shoot Connie a text later and wish him good luck at winning over Sasha’s family. A text isn’t much, but at least it says I still care about what’s going on in their lives.

I watch as Reiner quickly stands, moving to bustle about the kitchen, grabbing a couple energy drinks from the fridge as well as a couple snacks from the cupboard. While I am disappointed that they’ll be leaving, I can’t say that I’m exactly disappointed at the thought of having the suite to myself over break. And I am more than a little relieved to hear Bertholdt casually mention that Marco will be going back to Jinae for spring break. Maybe this will give me the time and space I need to sort out my head.

Bertholdt and Reiner leave shortly after our talk, departing with hugs and promises that they will text me. I walk out with them and watch them pull out of the parking lot before returning to the room. I plop down on the couch again with a sigh. It’s just me, the Netflix queue, and the steadily warming beer in my hand, and the three of us are going to have a lot of time to think over the next few days.

Staring at the screen idly, it takes another 10 minutes before I finally pick up the Playstation controller and select something to watch.

A few hours later, I get a single, lone text from Marco.

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Have a good break, Jean._

I don’t reply.

**::**

I wish I could tell you that I have spent my spring break being super productive, but the most I’ve actually done is work a little on my painting project and work out. I also wish I could tell you that the work I’ve done on my painting has been amazing and productive and oh, golly gee, I’m almost finished with it. But I would be lying. The assignment has always been annoyingly vague: all that is required is that we present three completed figure works. Everything else is up to us, but they are required to be cohesive elements, each possessing parts of the other, and so far, the only thing any of my goddamn attempts have in common are the freckles. And I’m angry about it.

At least my workouts have been going well. I’ve made a point of avoiding the rowing machines thus far though, opting instead to complete the running or lifting requirements that Levi had assigned. Mostly, I’m doing it simply so that I don’t have to deal with all the memories those rowing machines might bring. I’m avoiding them in a desperate attempt to avoid thoughts of Marco, to avoid the thoughts of the way he looked at me, the way he dragged his fingers across my hands, the way he’d whispered my name, hushed and quiet: private, just for me. I’m doing it to avoid letting myself think about what happened on the docks, to avoid believing that when I had kissed him, before he pushed me away, that there might have been the faintest hint of his lips responding to my own.

Sometimes avoidance is the only defense mechanism I have. 

**::**

Before I know it, Spring Break is halfway over. I honestly haven’t done much today; the only workout I did was a brief lifting session and I haven’t even bothered to  _look_ at my paintings. But as I’m sitting here alone, sprawled across the floor of the living room of the suite, I can’t help but feel I should do something. I’m not exactly sure what it is that spurs me to head for a workout at this hour. It’s 9 o’clock at night, and I think really, it’s simply that I have nothing better to do. I enjoyed the solitude at first, to be honest. The absence of my roommates was quite welcomed; as much as I appreciate their concern for me and their desire to help me out, there are times when I simply need away from the questions, away from the help. But by this point in the break, I’m bored.

With a sigh and a stretch, I quickly get changed into some spandex and grab my water bottle, preparing myself to head to the fitness center and force in some sort of workout. I’ll probably do some cycling on one of the stationary bikes. I like cycling. It’s a good workout that typically allows me to zone out pretty completely. On a stationary bike, I can just sit there, force out the workout and not have to think about anything. Lifting weights requires my attention and focus. Rowing requires my constant bodily awareness as well as my mental fortitude against searing, horrendous pain. And well, I’ve tried to allow myself to zone out while running and frankly, it didn’t end well. Tripped a lot, fell off a treadmill once, and sprained my ankle another time. It wasn’t pretty.

I head to the gym, enjoying the cool night air. It’s that time of year when the days are steadily getting warmer, cooled only by the cover of darkness. It’s refreshing. As I approach the gym and head down towards the fitness room, something stops me. I pause before entering, taking a step back and glancing down the hallway. I can’t really explain it, but I feel oddly compelled and drawn away from the bikes. I wind up walking past the door to the workout room and heading down the back hallway instead, the same hallway that will take me down towards the racquetball courts. The same hallway that will take me down to the two lone ergs that are tucked away in the back of the fitness complex.

As I move down the hall, I do my best not to think too much. In this hallway, my mind is always just on the brink of a memory of Marco: memories of him kneeling before me, his eyes full of concern, his fingers dancing along my wounded hand as if his touch alone might have healed me. Absently, I glance down at my left hand, nothing the faint hint of callused scar tissue that resides in the middle of my palm now. It takes a lot not to drag my fingertips across it, not to remind myself of what Marco’s fingers had felt like. I don’t remember this spot as a wound anymore. I remember it as a kiss that Marco’s fingertips had so tenderly seared into my flesh.

I sigh. I have to stop thinking like this.

Making my way down through the back hall, I notice the motion sensor lights beginning to click on with my movements. In the distance, I can hear the faint sound of the resistance fan of an erg hissing out into the quiet. I furrow my brow and sigh, hanging my head in moderate frustration before continuing down the hall. It’s undoubtedly the sound of someone on one of the ergs. It’s probably just some poor, inexperienced kid who doesn’t know his ass from a gunwale and who’s probably flinging himself up and down the slide like a drunken octopus. Here’s hoping that only one of the two machines is taken.

I round the corner to the racquetball courts, and I see the figure of someone on one of the ergs. Whoever it is, they’re facing away from me as they row. But luck appears to be on my side as I note that the person is alone, and that the other erg is still standing up in the corner. I trudge forward a little faster, steadily approaching the person, but as I close in, I have to stop, my feet pausing their movements of their own accord.

I know those shoulders. I would know that bare back anywhere. I know those muscles and that taut skin, littered with freckles. I’ve stared at them every single day. I would know those speckled constellations in my sleep.

It’s Marco.

I thought he was going back to Jinae, what is he doing here? Did he decide to stay?

I can’t help but wonder that if he did decide to stay, why didn’t he bother to mention it to me? But I remember quickly that I hadn’t exactly told Marco any of my Spring Break plans either… And with how the two of us have been lately, I can't really expect that level of casual communication from him. I breathe a soft sigh, watching silently as he rows, focused and rhythmic as he always is.

I should go.

I’m not at all prepared for him. Yes, I suppose that it’s a possibility that when I walk up, he will act normally. It’s completely possible that if he sees me, our interaction will be the same as they’ve been these last couple weeks: normal, quiet, and uneventful. Perhaps Marco would simply not at me and continue on his way. But there’s always that chance that he won’t do that… There’s always that chance that he will talk to me, ask me questions, demand answers that I am not at all prepared to give him.

It’s only because of that uncertainty that I turn around with resolve, ready to leave. But just as I do, I hear the fan of the erg begin to slow and the soft sound of a clunk as Marco replaces the handle into its holder. I don’t even make it three steps before I hear him speak.

“Jean?”

I stop in my tracks at the sound of his voice. Part of me desperately wishes that I had it in me to just keep walking, but I can’t. This is the first time in what feels like an eternity that I’ve even heard him say my name… And god, how I have missed the way my name slips off his tongue. I can’t help but stay.

“Hey.” I say to him softly, steadily turning back around to face his direction.

“I didn’t know you were on campus.” He mutters to me, standing up off the erg. His voice is still light and airy as he tries to catch his breath.

I can only shake my head, trying my very best to sound nonchalant, even though I know I’m probably failing hard.

“I didn’t know you were either…”

“Just got back today. I stayed in Jinae for a couple days; decided to come back a little early.”

Marco bends down to grab his discarded shirt from up off the floor and he drags it firmly across the sweat that has beaded up along his brow. And in this moment, I honestly cannot think of a single thing to say. This is the most that he and I have actually conversed in quite a while, and here I stand, back at square one with him. Tongue tied, jumbled up, and twisted, I am wordless.

Luckily, Marco speaks before I have to.

“You gunna get a workout?” He asks, casually slinging and draping his shirt across his sweaty shoulder as if the garment were barely an afterthought.

“Oh, uh… I just came to cycle actually.” I mutter, flicking my head vaguely back down the hallway towards the main fitness center. “I just thought I heard someone down here, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay.” Is all Marco says before he pauses, glances back at his erg. The only sounds between us now are the soft whooshes from the fan of the erg as it slows and slows and slows. Marco clears his throat. “Then I guess I’ll let you get to it.”

He nods at me and turns back to his erg, turns away from me, tosses his shirt back to the ground and settles down atop his erg again.

“Okay, thanks…” I’m already turning to leave when I have to pause, craning my head just a bit to look at him. All I see his is back as he fixes his feet back into the holders. I mumble quietly, “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure.” Is all he says, not turning around to look at me.

With heavy feet, I force myself to move and head back down the hall. But I only make it halfway down before I hear him, his voice calling softly down the corridor to me. His voice is tentative, but asking for my attention.

“Jean?” He calls out, voice just loud enough to carry along the walls of the hall. I stop, just barely craning my head around to look. I see him as he rounds the corner. He’s got his shirt in one hand and is shoving his keys and phone into his pants pockets before he jogs gently down the hall towards me.

He stops a bit short of me, making sure to leave ample enough space between us, and god help me if I don’t notice every single millimeter of the space that distances us. I can’t help the twinge that flares up in my chest.

_He doesn’t want to get too close… He’s making sure that there’s a safe distance between us… He doesn’t want to be near me and it’s because of what I did._

I want to be mad at him, or at least offended, but I just can’t muster up the emotions. I honestly can’t even blame him for wanting the space. Just look at what happened the last time he let his guard down and let the space between us dissipate.

There’s a moment when Marco pauses: silent and hesitant, as if he’s nervous. He brings his hand up to scratch idly at his nape before he sighs softly, resigning himself to speak.

“Jean, we should…” He pauses, looking down at the floor then back up at me uneasily, “Can we talk?”

I feel my stomach drop at the request. This is the moment I have dreaded. Marco wants to set the record straight, so to speak, and this is exactly the conversation I am in no way prepared for. But no matter how much I want to shake my head, no matter how much I want to decline his request and turn and run, run away like I had the night I forced his mouth against mine, I simply can’t. Instead, I nod and mumble, my voice apprehensive and uneasy.

“Sure…”

Marco nods wordlessly at my agreement, tugs his shirt on over his head, tugs his fingers through his tangled, sweaty hair and motions silently for the two of us to walk along the hall.

I move silently beside him and I’m simply waiting: I’m waiting for the ball to drop, I’m waiting for his accusations, but they don’t come. He doesn’t question me when I don’t even bother to look into the workout room as we pass it by. I stare at my feet as we walk.

Marco doesn’t say anything until the two of us press through the doors, moving out into the fresh night air. He waits to speak until the two of us are wrapped in darkness, bathed only in the dim, soft yellows of the walkway lamp posts.

We walk side by side, careful that our shoulders never touch. I hear him breathe softly before he speaks.

“I don’t like not being around you, Jean.” He tells me matter-of-factly, and the sheer honesty and frankness in his voice catches me completely off-guard. I don’t know how to react to it or what to say, I can hardly get a read on his tone, and I feel myself faltering, daring only to glance over at him as we walk together. But Marco doesn’t look back at me. He keeps his gaze pointed and focused straight out ahead of us as we walk alone across campus.

I don’t know what to say, and so I say the only thing that comes to mind.

“I don’t like it either…”

My voice seems to waver no matter how steady I try to keep it. After I speak, I hear Marco exhale slowly and clear his throat.

“I mean, we can try and pretend that we haven’t been distant… since, well… you know. But we both know that’s not true… I miss hanging out with you, Jean…”

There’s a moment when he pauses, and I can already feel the _“But…”_ that’s building up behind his teeth.

“But I…” There’s the  _“but”_ . Marco stops for a moment, I can tell he knows what he wants to stay, but he’s still stopping to consider his words carefully. “But I think we need to… sort out… what happened on the dock.”

I can hardly think. Marco is quiet now, as if he is waiting for me to say something, but what on earth could he possibly expect me to say at this point? I’m sorry?

_I’m sorry that you have made me feel so significant, so worthwhile. I’m sorry that I have taken your comfort and your companionship as something deeper. I’m sorry that I misread you. I’m sorry that I pressed our lips together like you were the last breath of air to a drowning man._

“Jean,” Marco starts again, interrupting the silence that is reigning between us, “I just need to be… clear with you, you know? I just kind of want to explain myself…” He says, his voice so gentle and yet so tentative, as if he knows that his words will hurt. I can’t listen to this; so I stop him in the only way I can think to. I interrupt the thought… I admit defeat.

“Don’t.” I tell him. “You don’t have to. I was… I was wrong, Marco. I was just… just upset. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I…” I have to pause there, have to force myself to swallow down the hard, disturbing lump that has congealed itself in the back of my throat. “I didn’t mean it. It… it didn’t  _mean_ anything…”

_Liar… Putrid, rotten liar._

I don’t know how my words sound. I don’t know if they sound genuine, but I am pleading with him. Begging him to buy the lies I’m spewing at him, if only for the sake of our friendship.

There’s a moment when he looks at me that I almost can’t see him anymore. When he turns to face me, I almost don’t see Marco anymore. His furrowed brow, his somewhat cocked head, an expression on his face that says he’s confused by my words, but more so says that he can see right through me. For a single moment in time, I don’t see Marco standing beside me anymore. I see Daniel. I see Daniel looking back at the me who was naïve and innocent and trusting… I see him looking back at the freshman, inexperienced version of myself, and I can only imagine his harsh glares, his aloof stares, his callousness towards me, and I can hardly breathe.

Marco doesn’t look at me like Daniel did and I know that. I know it, I do. But after the lies I just spewed, I’m still half-expecting Marco to scoff at me, to sneer, to say “fuck off, faggot” with such harsh, bitter disdain that it tears me asunder.

But he doesn’t.

His face – first confused and disbelieving – softens in an instant, and there before me, it’s him again. It’s Marco I’m looking at again. He shrugs just slightly.

“Oh. So…. It was nothing, then?” He asks, his voice so flat and so dry that I literally cannot get a grasp on what he means. I cannot understand how I am supposed to take that question. I can’t help the way I pause and hesitate to reply, slightly opening my mouth and closing it again quickly.

But I have to reply. I straighten my back, lift my chin, stiffen my shoulders. I resolve myself. I speak with as much conviction as I can muster.

“It was nothing.”

_Fucking liar._

Marco licks his lips and looks away from me. We’re almost back to the dorms now.

“Okay. If you’re sure.” He says plainly. I know I’m imagining it, I know I’m only hearing it to make myself feel better, but I can’t help but think I hear the faintest hint of disappointment in his voice.

Marco waits another beat to speak, eyes ducking down to the ground as we walk.

“We’re… we’re still friends, right?” He asks me hesitantly and I can’t help the way I falter. I turn my head to look at him, but he doesn’t look back at me. I nod, hoping that he’s at least watching from the corner of his eye.

“Of course…”

The faintest of smiles edges its way onto his profile and he nods.

“Okay. Good.”

The two of us walk in silence the rest of the way back to the dorms, and just up ahead I can see where the path begins to fork between our two buildings. Marco and I pause at the divide, standing there quietly for only a moment more. March exhales slowly, turning his attention towards me.

“Sorry I dragged you away from your workout.”

I chuckle lightly and shrug.

“Eh, no biggie.”

Marco doesn’t say anything. I clear my throat gently and gesture back towards my dorm.

“I’m gunna turn in, yeah?” I tell him softly and he nods.

There’s a moment as I stand there where I wonder what the two of us should do now. Do we fist bump? Do we wave? Do we hug?

Marco just nods at me.

None of the above, apparently.

“Okay. Goodnight, Jean.” He tells me softly.

“Goodnight, Marco.”

And with that, I turn away, heading towards the entrance of my dorm. But as I buzz the door and grab the handle, I hear him call out from behind me.

“Text me tomorrow?”

I stop and I can’t help the small little grin that edges its way onto my face. I crane my head back to look at him.

“I will.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting so patiently for this update! I hit a mild spat of writer's block in the middle, but churned my way through it, phew! 
> 
> These two just can't get on the same page, can they? They will soon though, I promise. :) 
> 
> Thank you again for your continued support. You guys have all really kept me going with this fic! 
> 
> As usual, I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and always welcome more SNK/Jeanmarco fans! 
> 
> Thanks! Next chapter will hopefully be completed soon!


	14. Re-Rigging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//I see the doors that I can't open_   
>  _Adding locks from time to time_   
>  _When it opens something blocks me_   
>  _And I'm asking myself why?_   
>  _Did I take the step I wanted_   
>  _Was it just a state of mind?_   
>  _I feel sorry for myself_   
>  _Every time I close my eyes//_
> 
>  
> 
> Infected Mushroom || In Front Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No terms really need to be defined in this chapter! 
> 
> Thanks a bunch to my beta [freckledjeankirschstein](http://freckledjeankirschtein.tumblr.com) for getting this back to me so fast! You rule, as usual, sweetums!

After my discussion with Marco, I had retreated steadily back to my dorm, half-inspired to simply turn around, run back to him, and fling my arms around him. Half-inspired to pretend that nothing had ever happened, ready to pretend that we were as close as we ever were. But we aren’t at that point anymore, we aren’t the kind of friends who do that anymore, and we never should be again, frankly, if only for the fact that I’ve more than proven that I am unable to control myself whenever I get too close to him.

Surprisingly though, I had fallen asleep with relative ease that evening. I had dreamt of walls toppling, I had dreamt of levees breaking, I had dreamt of mountains being swallowed down by the waters. And it was okay. It was all okay.

It’s only now, upon waking at the first signs of dawn, lying in my bed alone that I wonder if anything is truly better, or hell, if it’s truly even  _okay_ . Lying on my back, I dare to crane my head to the side, staring at the opposite side of my pillow where my phone rests. I stare at it as if it is my only line to Marco, as if it it’s Marco himself lying beside me, and I wonder what any of this is supposed to mean. I think vaguely back on what he’d asked me last night.

_“We’re still friends, right?”_

As if I could ever truly let him go. As if I could ever truly deny myself the feelings I get when he smiles. He could move to the other end of the world, never write me, never speak to me again, and I would still float here amongst the silt and sediment and pretend that I could feel his laughter resonating through the stillness of the water. 

With a soft sigh, I reach over and unplug my phone. I can only stare at it for a moment, not unlocking the screen, not yet ready to check it. But eventually, I have to. My alarm will be going off soon, and I owe Marco a text, at the very least. Maybe he’s already texted me, but I’m not expecting that...

Quickly, I drag my finger along the screen to open it. My home screen sits in front of me, and much to my surprise, there’s a little  2 next to my Messages icon. With a quick tap, I open it up, idly hoping that perhaps it’s from Reiner or Bertholdt or Connie, telling me about their break, but it isn’t. Bolded on my screen is one new message… from Marco Bodt.

The time stamp reads 4:24 am. It’s only verging on 6:30 am now, and I have to wonder if he simply didn’t sleep. With a hesitant tap of my finger, I open it.

**From: Marco Bodt**  
 _(1/2) Hey I know you’re probably asleep, but just wanted to say this. I hope we can get back to how things were… I’ve missed you and don’t want what happened to come between us anymore. I know things have  
_ _(2/2) been tough for you. But at the end of the day, I’m your friend and always will be._

I read it twice, three times, and by the fourth time, all I can do is stare at my phone until the letters start to blur before me.

I suppose I should be happy about this text. On the surface, this text tells me that Marco is a good person, a good friend. He is kind and caring and isn’t willing to shove me away simply because I can’t figure out healthy ways to handle my problems. But the longer I stare at it, I find that I simply can’t be happy about it. Because while I’m comforted by the fact that Marco still wants to be my friend, this text feels final. It feels like the last nail in the coffin. And it tells me that all I will ever be is a friend. This text tells me that I will always be Marco’s friend, but never more.

I should be happy about his friendship, and I know it, because he truly is an amazing friend. This is more than I ever, ever deserved from him. I should be happy because Marco doesn’t owe me  _anything_ , not even his friendship, and it isn’t his fault that my heart jumps into my throat whenever I’m around him. But I can’t even crack a smile. Because I have tasted his lips and smelled his skin and had his hand against my jaw, and I have never been good at letting go.

But for his sake, I can lie. Because Marco deserves a little peace.

I exhale slowly, typing out each tedious letter of my reply.

**To: Marco Bodt  
** _Thank you, Marco… It means a lot to hear you say that. I’m lucky to have a friend like you._

I send it without waiting to even re-read it. 

I  _am_ lucky to have a friend like Marco.

I set my phone back down on the other side of my pillow and slowly roll over to face the wall. With a sigh, I drag the comforter up and over my head.

I’m lucky to have a friend like Marco.

It’s all I can do to keep my breath calm, hiding underneath my covers from the daylight like the pathetic louse that I can be.

I’m lucky.

I’m  _lucky_ .

I don’t even look when I hear my text tone sound off again. I know Marco has replied to me. But I can’t bring myself to read it.

I’m lucky. And everything is okay.

Everything will be okay.

**::**

It’s almost 11 before I finally extract myself from underneath my covers and attempt to join the land of the living. Edging towards the window, I take a peek through the blinds. The campus is still more or less a ghost town. It’ll probably be a couple days before the majority of students begin to make their reluctant return.

I glance idly around my room, deciding with the grumble of my stomach that I should probably get dressed and get food. I dress quickly and head out towards the campus café. I’m kind of glad that the place will likely be pretty empty. That’s the one nice thing about staying on campus during breaks – it’s a rare opportunity to revel in a minute bit of solitude on campus.

As I approach, I note that the patio is empty, and I can only hope that the indoor seating is just as desolate. I slip in and note only a couple of people eating quietly by themselves, reading or staring at their phones as they do, and breathe a small sigh of relief. I can eat quickly and just make my way back to my room with minimal human interaction.

I make my way towards the food stations and order a wrap, idly glancing at my phone as the man at the station makes it. I open up my messages, only just now noting the text Marco had sent in response to mine this morning.

**From: Marco Bodt  
** _You mean a lot to me, Jean. A lot._

There’s a moment when I simply stare at the text, focused on it entirely, until finally, the man making my wrap gets my attention and passes the food off to me. With a shake of my head, I shove my phone in my pocket, grab my wrap and pay, moving into the dining area to find a table somewhat distanced from the three or four other people in the café.

As I sit, I can only stare at my food for a moment, reaching once more into my pocket to grab my phone and open up the message he had sent me. I set the device down flat on the table beside my basket, picking up my wrap and taking a bite while still staring down at the open text message.

How am I supposed to take a text like that? What do I say about it? Or do I say anything at all?

I chew my bite slowly, forcing myself to swallow as I stare at my phone. What is the proper etiquette in this situation? What does that text even  _mean_ ?

I sigh and lock my phone, turning my focus back to my wrap.

I spend the next few minutes eating, wrapped up in my thoughts, until a small voice interrupts me.

“Hey, you.”

I glance up quickly at the sound and am met with bright brown eyes and freckles. Marco’s standing over me a bit, a gentle smile on his face, one cup in each of his hands. I don’t mean to smile, but at the sight of his face, I forget my own thoughts for a moment, forget the silent panic that had just been overwhelming me, and I focus instead only on how he’s looking at me. I shake my head quickly and acknowledge him.

“Hey.” I say, my voice wavering a bit despite my best efforts.

Marco gestures towards the empty seat across from me.

“Mind if I join?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” I say, gesturing towards the seat as an invitation.

“Thanks,” he says, setting down both the cups in his hands as he slides into the chair.

In an attempt to busy myself, I take a quick bite of my wrap as he slowly pushes one of the cups towards me. I raise my eyebrow at him as I chew.

“Iiiii… got you a coffee.” He says, taking a sip out of his own cup. I quirk my head, smiling just a bit and reaching for it.

“Oh, wow. Thank you.” I swallow my bite of wrap and take a brief sip, and close my eyes. My body feels like it could melt at the taste of it.

“Oh dear god…” I mumble euphorically, feeling the warmth and comfort and sweetness of it seep into my body as I take another quick sip. “What did you put in this?”

“Eh, sugar, cream… a little bit of cocaine, just the usual.”

“What was that last one?”

“Cream?”

I shake my head with a smirk, chuckling softly as I take another sip and set the cup down, returning my attention back to my wrap. He always just knows how to make me smile, and I wish that weren’t as bothersome as it is. Marco and I are quiet for the next few moments, me eating and him sipping on his coffee and glancing at his phone, and I honestly can’t figure out if this silence between us is comfortable or awkward. I’m leaning more towards awkward, simply given the current tenuous state of our friendship and my constant internal conflict regarding him. But Marco doesn’t seem uncomfortable. In fact, he seems quite the opposite, he seems pretty calm, and maybe that’s alright. Maybe this silence is okay.

I finish my wrap wordlessly and sip on my coffee some more and Marco finally sets his phone down and smiles up at me. He doesn’t say anything, simply catching my eyes and sliding down a bit into his chair and shrugging his shoulders.

“So, this next regatta… Seems a little odd to go to one that falls so close to a break.” 

I nod slowly. He’s right; our next regatta is the Saturday after classes resume, which gives us only half of the week to train and the other half to taper. It certainly isn’t an ideal training situation for a race, but we always seem to go.

“Yeah, I kind of hate this race. It always falls  _really_ close to spring break, which makes preparation kinda hard. But Hanji likes this regatta, so we usually go. She thinks it’s a good opportunity for the novice to experience a higher pressure regatta that’s still a small-ish venue. Levi doesn’t really like this race, so I guess the fact that he agrees with Hanji about us going is just a testament to the fact that he trusts us to do our workouts over break…”

Marco nods.

“That makes sense… Speaking of, though, you wanna meet up later and get some erg time in?”

I pause for a moment, silently weighing my options. Marco looks hopeful, almost excited and eager for me to say yes. On the one hand, I’d rather spend a little more time away from him, if only to give myself time to collect myself. I hadn’t exactly expected to see him this morning or to eat with him. But on the other hand, I want to be around him, I feel a deep pull inside my chest that yearns for his companionship, yearns for him to smile at me, to share coffee with me, to suffer atop the rowing machines with me.

I don’t understand myself sometimes.

Actually, I don’t understand myself  _most_ of the time.

And so, despite my reservations, I agree.

“Sure. Need to work on my painting for a while though… So… later tonight?” I ask hesitantly.

“How’s 7?”

“7 sounds great.” I say with a brief nod, swilling my coffee around in the cup. There’s a small little bubble of nerves building up in my stomach, and I have to remind myself silently that we’re just meeting up for a work out. So why do I feel like I’m planning a goddamn date?  _Pick you up at 7? Oh, yeah, that sounds great, oh gosh, what will I wear?_

This is horrible.

**::**

Marco and I finish up without much more conversation, the two of us simply browsing our phones, and just sitting in each other’s company. I’m still not sure if it was comfortable or not, because I’ve learned that I more or less can’t trust my own interpretation of our interactions anymore. But Marco seemed alright.

We part ways as I head over to the painting studio, Marco giving me a wave and saying he’ll meet me at the fitness center later tonight. I spend the remainder of the day pointedly ignoring the notification tones from my phone, painting and resisting the urge to splatter my creations with drops of dappled freckles. It’s harder than it looks. By the time 5:30 rolls around, I decide that my pieces are good enough for now and I can work on the finishing touches another night. For now, I just want to relax a bit in my dorm and mentally attempt to prepare myself for meeting up with Marco.

I shouldn’t be so accustomed to the idea of mentally bracing myself for meeting a friend. But look what happened when I didn’t.

You know how time always moves slower when you’re anticipating something and seems to fly when you’re anxious? This is easily the first time I’ve experienced both. Sitting in my dorm and listening to music, I have never before felt time tick by in such swift tedium. Each time I look at the clock, I marvel to myself about how only 10 minutes have passed, while simultaneously panicking about how another 10 minutes have already flown by and that the minutes are speeding by like seconds till I have to meet Marco.

If this is how the rest of my friendship with Marco is going to be, I am  _so_ not ready.

But eventually, after what feels like the goddamn shortest eternity, it’s time for me to head over and meet him. Dressed in my usual attire of jeans tugged up over spandex and a ratty old t-shirt, I try my damned not to think too much as I grab my iPod and head towards the gym.

When I arrive, Marco is already there, standing outside and waiting for me. Underneath his arm is a small black box and I can’t help but raise my eyebrow in curiosity as I approach him. He grins and holds it up for me to see as we turn and head into the fitness center.

“It’s my little speaker dock, that way we can listen to music…” He says, before I even have to ask.

“Good, I brought my iPod.” I say to him, pulling the device from my pocket as we walk. It’s only then that another thought pops into my head. “Unless, you brought your own music?”

Marco just smiles like he always does and shakes his head.

“Nope, was just hoping you’d bring yours.”

The two of us continue down to the racquetball courts, setting up the ergs side by side and getting everything situated without too many words between us. As Marco is setting up the speakers, I idly hand him my iPod.

“What playlist should I do?”

“Uh… My workout one.”

“I don’t see one that says “Workout”,” he mumbles, scrolling through my playlists.

I clear my throat, settling down onto the erg.

“It’s uh. It’s called “I’m Sexy and I Know It”.”

Marco flings his head around, a giant, mocking grin already on his face. I just shake my head, choosing not to say anything. Marco turns back and selects the playlist and hooks it up.

“Well, at least you’re humble.” He laughs, standing up and heading towards his erg.

“Sooo humble.” I mumble back to him, sliding up towards my monitor and turning it on. “What did you want to do?”

“I was thinking… maybe a meter pyramid, minute and a half rest between? So 500-1000-1500-2000-1500-1000-500? Sound good?”

“…I know I’m going to regret saying this, but that doesn’t sound too bad, let’s do it.”

**::**

I knew I would regret it, I knew it. And look at me now, sitting here, rowing my ass off as my lungs threaten to expel themselves from my body if only for the chance to get a goddamn breath of air. Here I am, regretting this workout entirely. I knew it, I  _knew_ it.

Why do I do this to myself?

Marco doesn’t seem to be fairing any better. We already did the pyramid once through and only opted to do it a second time because  _we’re fucking stupid_ . Seriously, I have no other explanation. Why would anyone voluntarily put themselves through such ridiculous amounts of pain if they weren’t missing a few key neurons? Specifically the neurons that scream ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU GODDAMN MORON, GET OFF THE ERG!’. 

We’ve only got 250 meters left, and Marco is simply heaving by my side, both our breath harsh and wheezing as we push through. I’m actually rather impressed that we’ve more or less managed to stay at the same power ratio so that our meters are counting down at roughly the same time.

We’ve got less than 25 strokes left, and Marco seems to realize it too as he seamlessly bumps up the stroke rate. I’m actually somewhat impressed with the ease at which I move up to pace with him, not even a hitch in between. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised, though… he and I have worked well together since day one, the only exception being when all I could manage to do was attempt to distance myself from him.

But now, rowing at his side, nearing the end of a piece that has cost me nearly every ounce of strength and willpower within my body, I feel okay. I feel at ease, almost having forgotten why I ever attempted to distance myself in the first place. I feel like we’re a pair again. Seamless, powerful, intoxicated with the rhythm we create with every push and pull.

But the feeling is short-lived, as the meters count down to zero and the pain seeps back in. I release my handle quickly, fumbling to undo my foot straps and collapse down onto my back on the floor between our two machines. Marco seems to have the same idea. He releases his handle with a little more finesse than I did, and undoes his foot straps carefully with his shaking fingers before lowering himself down to the floor beside me.

There really is  _just_ enough room for the two of us in between our rowing machines, and we lie there together, on our backs, shoulder to shoulder, doing the very best we can to just  _breathe._ Why Marco didn’t choose to roll to the opposite side of his erg, I’ll never know. But for one blissful moment, I let us lie here. I let his sweaty, slick shoulder rest flush against mine, our hands pressed limply back to back.

If I wanted to, I could just turn my palm a bit and take hold of his hand. But even though I want to, I can’t do that. Instead, I lie there, body shaking, slick with sweat, and just try to breathe. Endorphins and agony flood my muscles and my head, but I’m alright. So long as I can breathe.

Marco seems to be having the same trouble, his breath heaving and wheezing with each respiration.

“I… hate myself…” he pants out unevenly. I can only nod.

“I hate… you… too.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head.

“You…”  _pant, pant_ , “don’t mean… that.”

"No, I… I do.” I cough lightly, still trying to let my lungs regain enough oxygen for my brain to fully function. “I’m gunna… hang a plaque… in my room. ‘Most Hated: Marco Bodt’.”

Marco laughs breathily and out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn his head. I shouldn’t do the same. Because I know what I’ll see if I do. If I turn my head, I’ll see him face to face. I’ll see his forehead, beaded up with sweat, I’ll see his eyes, glistening and bright from the workout and the endorphins. I’ll see his smile and grinning, red lips. I shouldn’t turn my head.

But I’ve never been good at listening to my own advice.

I turn my head, and there he is, smiling at me softly as if this were a totally normal way for two friends to behave. He stares at me with a tenderness that I can’t place, a tenderness that I’m goddamn  _positive_ that I’m imagining. And suddenly, everything feels very wrong.

The floor is too hard against my back, the carpet rough against my skin. My body is sticky and uncomfortable and riddled with pain and my head aches like there’s no tomorrow.

Because Marco looks… Marco looks sinful and… euphoric… and utterly fucked out and I really just can’t look at him anymore. Because there's a moment when all I want is to lean over and take his mouth against my own. I want to bite his lips and drag my tongue over his. I want to pin him to the goddamn floor and give him something else to pant about. I want to hear him moan my goddamn name and this isn’t good.

I’m supposed to be letting go. 

I sit up quickly, already attempting to stand on my shaking legs. I feel dizzy as I stand, unsure of whether or not it’s from lifting up too quickly or from the way Marco looked as I had stared at him.

This isn’t  _fair_ of him. He can’t fucking act like this to me and expect the two of us to just go back to normal. How fucking  _dare_ he look at me like that. How fucking dare he act as if this is how friends behave.

I don’t mean to be angry, but I can’t help it.

I won’t let him know though. I can’t. Because the minute he sees I’m upset, he’s going to know why. So instead, I act as calm as I can, already sliding my jeans up over my spandex and grabbing my iPod off the dock. Marco sits up slowly, stretching out his limbs. If he’s noticed anything about how I’m acting, he doesn’t let on.

“Oooooh…” he groans as he stretches and yawns briefly, “So man, I was thinking about watching Se7en, if you wanna hang a bit.”

I don’t look at him, opting instead just to shrug and shake my head.

“Nah, thanks…” I mumble, trying my best to sound as calm as possible. “Think I’m just gunna head to bed early.”

Marco nods and pushes himself up to his feet.

“Alrighty. You can head on out, if you want. I’ll straighten up here.”

I lift my brow at him. As much as I would like an excuse to not have to walk back with him, I hadn’t exactly expected him to offer it.

“You sure?” I ask hesitantly, to which he nods.

“Yeah, man. You look tired.”

“Thanks…” I tell him, turning around as he starts to wipe off his erg and roll it to the corner. “See you around.”

"Bye! Good workout!”

It’s all I can do to calmly walk out rather than sprint away like I so desperately want to.

**::**

I know it’s probably not the nicest or smartest way to respond to what happened after our workout, but I ignore Marco for the last two days of break. Granted, he only texts me a few times, a couple requests to either grab lunch or dinner, or to watch a movie, but I just don’t reply.

Again, I know I could handle this better, please don’t remind me. I’m well aware of my shortcomings when it comes to dealing with uncomfortable situations. Instead of actually manning up and dealing with my problems, instead of not acting like a child and ignoring Marco, I spend the last couple days of break either holed up in my room or finishing up my paintings. At least I can use the “Sorry, I was busy with my project” excuse if Marco decides to ask why I never responded to his texts.

On the Sunday before classes are set to resume, Connie is the first to return. He and Sasha both show up at the dorm with aggressive hugs and lots of stories about how break went for them, what with introducing Connie to Sasha’s family and such. I tell them it’s just nice to have Connie back in one piece. Reiner and Bertholdt aren’t far behind the Springles pair, and the five of us take to hanging out in the dorm, talking about stories and random shit that happened over break.

As much as I enjoyed having the place to myself, I’m extremely happy to see all their faces again. The companionship and laughter reminds me once again what it’s like to hang around my friends as if all were right in the world. Their smiling faces and hugs allow me just a little bit of a break from my constant, near obsessive and unhealthy, contemplation of Marco. And I’m happy for it.

When they ask how my break has been, I shrug and tell them it was boring. I tell them that I mostly just hung around here, worked out, and painted. They don’t seem to question it. Finally, after a good while of relaxing with them and catching up, things begin to settle down. Sasha heads back to her dorm, and Connie and Bertholdt begin to tend to a few of their things in preparation for tomorrow’s classes. After a while, it’s just Reiner and I hanging out on the couch.

There’s a curious look on Reiner’s face as he stares at me: it’s questioning and I’m almost sure I know exactly what he’s going to ask.

“So, have you seen Marco?”

And there it is. I just shrug and nod half-heartedly.

“Yeah, he came back a couple days ago.”

Reiner smirks.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, he texted me and said y’all talked things out a bit?”

“So... why did you ask?" I ask incredulously. 

Reiner shrugs. 

"just wanted to see what you would say. So you talked things out?" 

"Yeah… yeah, we did.”

“How was that?”

“It was… Well, it just kinda ‘was’, you know?”

“Well, what did he say?”

“Um… that he didn’t like us being distant… and that we should sort out what happened um… on the docks.”

Reiner waits for a beat, before stretching out his legs on the cushions and plopping them into my lap.

“And what did y’all sort out?”

“He… politely let me down and I told him that the uh, the kiss didn’t mean anything.”

Reiner quirks his eyebrow for a moment, a look of concern painting his features as he stares at me.

“But it  _did_ mean something, Jean, it meant something to you...”

“Of course it did.” I reply quickly, the tone in my voice telling Reiner to quit saying unnecessary shit. “But Marco doesn’t need to know that.”

“Why not? For the sake of your friendship?”

“Yeah.” I tell him flatly.

The way Reiner’s looking at me, I half-expect him to say something else. He looks like there’s more he wants to say, but instead, he stays quiet. He breathes in deeply and nods at me, grabbing up the remote and flicking on the television. I don’t bother to ask what it is he wanted to say.

**::**

When Monday rolls around, I’m a bit curious if Marco is going to call me on ignoring him for the last couple days, but when he sees me in Neuro, he simply smiles, waves, and moves quickly to sit beside me. He seems normal, grabbing out his notebook, mumbling about how it will be nice to get back into the regular swing of things. All I can do is nod and agree, attempting to fortify myself and to remind myself exactly how ‘friends’ normally behave around each other.

Practice goes decently well, the boat falling quickly into our rhythm once again despite the break we’ve had from each other. Despite all my mixed feelings, Marco and I seem to be rowing better together. We’re a little more focused and controlled, and maybe it was working out together that helped us. I’ll admit though, the two of us really aren’t back to where we should be, and I still occasionally find myself falling out of sorts with him. But overall, it’s better, and Levi seems happy for the change.

As we pack up from practice and move to leave, Levi calls out from behind us.

“Bodt, Kirschstein. You did better today. Glad you took my words to heart. Keep it up.”

We both nod at him, silently acknowledging the praise before proceeding on our way. As we walk back, neither of us mentions his words, not willing to bring up the thing that had caused us to be distant in the first place.

**::**

The days of this week count down much faster than I would have liked, and before I know it, it’s time for us to head to the third regatta. It’s only about an hour away, so many of us opt to simply stay in Trost on Friday night and get up early Saturday to drive to the race site. Hanji and Levi leave on Friday after practice, trailering the boats to the site so that all we’ll have to do is rig them and race. Their only instruction is that we’re to be at the race site no later than 5:30 am.

Walking back to the dorms after practice, Marco strides steadily at my side. But as the two of us approach the dorms, he stops me before I can head down the path towards my own.

“Hey, so I was thinking about driving in the morning. Do you uh, do you wanna ride with me?” He asks hesitantly.

I had actually already planned on taking my own car, but the look on his face is telling me that he wants my company. And – however unwise a decision this may be - I nod.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Marco beams at me.

“Great. Okay. I figure to be there by 5:30, we should leave probably no later than like 4:20… So I’ll just pull up in the morning and you meet me out here?”

“Sure.” I tell him with another nod.

“Okay. Um. Well, then I’ll see you in the morning.”

He turns to leave, but stops quickly, turning back to me with a point.

“Oh, and bring your iPod.”

**::**

No human should have to get up at 3:45 in the morning. It isn’t right. It isn’t natural. The sun won’t even be up for another 2.5 hours, and if the sun’s not up, why should I be?

I’ll admit it: I’m not a morning person. But when duty calls…

So here I stand, at 4:15 in the goddamn morning, waiting outside my dorm for Marco to pull his car up. I’ve got a small bag slung over my shoulder. I already opted to wear my unisuit underneath my clothes, but having gone to plenty of regattas, I know that I’m going to want a change of clothes, as well as some snacks and some entertainment. It’s never a bad idea to have a bag.

Marco pulls up in front of my dorm, his tires against the pavement the only sound to be heard in the early, dark hours. He hops out and pops the trunk for me to toss my bag in next to his, and wordlessly the two of us get back in the car and set out towards the regatta.

The inside of the car is dark, the only light the glow of his GPS guiding us along the road, and the two of us haven’t said anything to each other besides a tired good morning. I slump down in my seat, thankful for its comfort, and set my eyes on Marco sitting up tightly in the driver’s seat. I watch as he runs a hand across his eyes and yawns.

“You okay to drive?” I ask softly, attempting to stifle my own yawn. He just turns to me and nods.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He grabs a tall can from the cup holder and shows it to me. An energy drink, perfect. He takes a quick sip and offers it to me. “Want some?”

“Oh my god, yes.” I groan, grabbing the can and taking a sip.

I’m too tired to even care about the way our fingers brush against each other as we pass the drink back and forth.

We ride together in relative silence, the only sounds the soft lulls of my music filtering in through the speakers. We don’t talk much, but as we ride, I find myself becoming more alert, more aware, more comfortable sitting here beside Marco. I’m actually rather happy for the lack of forced conversation, happy to just have a moment of stillness between us in what has felt like a goddamn cyclone these last few months.

I am nervous though, I am unsure about how this race will go, unsure about how we will row together. Because despite the fact that we addressed what happened, and that we’ve discussed our distance, and that we’ve somewhat been moving forward, I can’t help but still feel somewhat detached from him. Removed from him in ways I never wished to be, but in ways that I know I must be.

I wonder if he feels the same. I wonder if he looks at the ever-changing space between us and regrets.

Because I do.

I regret a lot.

**::**

Marco and I are some of the first few souls to arrive at the race site. Tired and quiet in the pre-dawn twilight, we move slowly with our teammates, rigging the boats and checking equipment in a state of calm routine.

By the time the sun has risen, all our teammates have arrived, the tent has been put up, and the boats are ready to go. After Hanji sends us on a brief warm up run, we return to sit beneath the canopy of our team’s tent to await our respective races. Luckily, my boat’s event is the 3 rd one, so we set to the water fairly quickly. I’d much rather race in the morning and relax the rest of the day than spend the day sitting and waiting.

I wish that I could tell you that we raced phenomenally. I wish I could tell you that all discomfort and lack of connection Marco and I have had were magically resolved, but I would be lying. I mean… the race doesn’t go  _horribly_ , and we still place, but it isn’t the best display of our ability. We still race hard, but I find myself having to put an inordinate amount of effort into maintaining a rhythm with Marco that had once come with ease.

We place third and get a bronze medal, which is fine, but it isn’t great. Not when in the past, we’ve easily placed first or second at this regatta. I’d be lying if I said I weren’t disappointed… mainly in myself, because my personal issues aren’t an excuse to let the boat down. But everyone seems okay, many of them happy to simply be done with the race and happy that we’ve placed at all. I know I shouldn’t berate myself too much but I can’t help it.

Settling down beneath the tent, I sprawl out, lying on my back. I shuffle my bag around a bit, using it as a makeshift pillow as I watch the novice move to launch their boats. I yank my book out from my bag and start to read idly. I’m honestly not absorbing much information from my book, my thoughts are still too wrapped up in our race to really focus, but it’s a nice attempt at a distraction. After a few moments, I notice Marco shuffle under the tent and sit down next to me, not hesitating to sprawl out as well. I watch him for a brief moment of the corner of my eye; with my book still held before me, I can at least pretend to focus on it. Marco turns his attention back to me.

“Mind if I grab a nap?” He asks tiredly.

I shrug.

“Go for it, man.”

Why he felt the need to ask my permission is beyond me. I turn my eyes back to my book, intent on focusing on it as Marco shuffles around and gets settled. But I’m quickly noticing that he’s not lying down beside me. He’s turning himself to lie perpendicular to me, and ever so softly, I feel his head rest atop my stomach.

I lift my book and glance down at him questioningly.

Marco just looks up at me hesitantly.

“I don’t have a pillow or anything… And the ground isn’t exactly a comfortable headrest. This okay? I can move, if you want…”

He sounds nervous all of a sudden, as if he’s quickly noticed the bewildered look on my face. So – hesitantly, ever so hesitantly – I shake my head.

“No, no, it’s uh… it’s fine.”

Marco’s face softens quickly and he smiles before relaxing his head back down atop my stomach.

“Thanks.” He says softly, just under his breath.

He slips his eyes closed and relaxes. The weight of his head atop my stomach isn’t heavy or uncomfortable, but it’s certainly hard to ignore. There’s a moment when all I can do is stare. Ten minutes ago, I would have told you that Marco felt just as uneasy around me as I did around him, but now, as I stare down at him, his head lolled softly against my body, I wonder if the discomfort is just me.

Marco has every right to feel uncomfortable. But he doesn’t. Here he is, close to me, head atop my stomach, behaving normally, dare I say intimately, as if nothing had ever happened, and I don’t… I don’t know how I feel about this.

I set my book down gently and glance around the tent. It’s relatively empty. Mikasa, Sasha and Armin had left to meander around the race site with Jaeger and Connie since the quad’s race isn’t for another couple of hours, and both the novice boats are already on the water. Reiner and Bertholdt had left in search of food. Krista and Ymir are really the only other ones beneath the tent apart from Marco and myself, and they two of them are curled up against each other, both passed out.

I have to wonder if Marco and I look like they do. Comfortable and relaxed, simply resting together like it were nothing.

I glance down at him again, already asleep as if this were the most comfortable place he could have rested his head. I don’t know how I feel. Confused, unsure, somewhat irritated, because this isn’t how things were supposed to happen. Because he isn’t supposed to be my friend and then act as if we’re lovers, as if we’re Ymir and Krista or Bertl and Reiner.

It isn’t fair to me… It isn’t fair at all. And I’m half-tempted to simply wake him up and tell him to move. But I can’t. I don’t want to. I want to sit and stare at him, I want to stroke his hair and let him sleep on my stomach as if this is where he and I were always meant to be. As if we were meant to be this close and intimate. So instead, I do nothing, simply watching him as he rests and wondering if there were things I could have done differently.

When Reiner and Bertholdt return, I’m surprised that neither of them says anything upon seeing Marco lying atop my stomach. Bertholdt just shrugs and sits down, and Reiner shoots me a smile before turning and plopping onto the ground beside his boyfriend.

I let Marco rest for a little over an hour, drifting in and out of sleep myself as I lie there beneath the warmth of his head. At some point, Marco curls onto his side, nuzzling his face lightly into my shirt and I can’t help but feel a deep, resounding sense of emptiness. This isn’t how we were supposed to be. This is never how I wanted us to be. Because he can nuzzle my skin and sit up and smile and go about his day like it’s nothing, as if we’re simply two friends hanging out and relaxing together.

This isn’t what I wanted for us, Marco.

**::**

Our team finishes all our races and gets the tent and the boats loaded by mid-afternoon, which means we’re free to hit the road decently early. I’m not that tired, but I’m more than a little weary. My head is tired of thinking, my stomach is tired of twisting up into knots, and I’m ready to simply go home.

As we head to the car, I idly ask Marco if he would like me to drive, since he drove us down here, but he shakes his head no. He tells me he’s more than rested from the nap he had earlier, and all I can do is grit my teeth and force a grin as I dump myself into the passenger’s seat.

I let Marco pick the music on my iPod, but he noticeably only seems to pick songs he knows I really like. The drive feels longer going back than it had this morning, and maybe it’s because I’ve curled myself up in the seat and have spent the entire time watching Marco’s hand as it rests atop the gear shift. I’m reminded of last regatta we’d traveled to, with Reiner and Bertholdt sleeping in the backseat, my music lulling the two of us comfortably, and me watching Marco’s hand and wondering if I should take hold of it.

I don’t wonder now. I stare at it and know that I absolutely shouldn’t take his hand. Even if I want to. And so I lift my gaze, watch his face, calm and serene in the late afternoon sunlight.

He truly is beautiful.

I breathe a soft breath and look away, turn my head to face out the window. I wish things had been different for us.

**::**

We get back to campus around 6 in the evening, just as the sun is beginning to set, and I think Marco can sense that I’m tired. He’s kind enough to pull up in front of the dorms to let me out even though I tell him he doesn’t have to. But he just smiles in that way he always seems to smile for me and lets me out.

He tells me softly to relax for a while and that he’ll see me later. I nod to him as I lean against his open window, and wish to god I could simply lean down and capture his lips with my own. But I don’t. I straighten up and wave him off, heading into my dorm to hopefully sleep my troubles away.

**::**

I manage to nap for several hours, only waking softly when I hear the door of the suite open and close again, my roommates filtering in and heading towards their respective bedrooms to relax and sleep. It feels late and I can’t help but wonder if perhaps they had gone out to get food or something before returning to campus. But I don’t care that much, quickly allowing myself to slip back into a dreamless sleep.

The next time I wake up, it’s  _definitely_ late. I fumble with my phone, attempting to see the time. It’s a little past midnight and I honestly feel quite rested from my lengthy nap and so I decide to simply get up and watch some television. With a groan, I sit up and stretch, moving into the common area and settling on the couch.

The suite is dark and fairly quiet. My suitemates are all likely still asleep, attempting to recover from the races earlier today. I flick on the television and turn the volume down low so as not to wake them. I turn on Netflix and select a random episode of Archer, letting myself unfocus and unwind, thankful for the little break from my thoughts.

From outside the door, I hear a few people giggling and talking as they walk down the hallway. I’m sure the campus is plenty busy this evening: frat parties, sorority swaps, the usual Saturday Night get togethers. I could always go explore and see what all is happening, but I just don’t really feel like going out.

I mean, unless my friends had wanted to go out, I just don’t feel like mustering up the energy at the moment. Instead, I’ll simply enjoy a little quiet time with Sterling Archer. I glance idly at the door to my bedroom. I could always try to sleep again, but after my nap, I’m more than awake and at least I can get a few laughs out of this ridiculous and vulgar show. Plus, I don’t really feel like lying awake in bed and simply letting my thoughts run rampant. I don’t feel like lying there and thinking about Marco, thinking about all the things I could have (and probably  _should have_ ) done differently. I don’t want to think about all the things I  _shouldn’t_ have done, either.

Because let’s be honest, there are a lot of things I could have done differently, a lot of things I could have handled better, more delicately, more gingerly… I shouldn’t have kissed him, is probably a good place to start. But at the end of the day, there’s nothing I can do to change it. At the end of the day, what’s done is done, and the ‘could haves’ and the ‘should haves’ just don’t matter. At the end of the day, all that’s left now is the river and the races – the water and its currents and its welcoming silt. When it comes right down to it, despite the fact that I had wished for something so much different, so much better, I would have wound up here one way or another. Because I’ve always been a sucker for a boy with brown eyes.

So for now, I won’t think about him. I won’t think about the way his head felt as he nuzzled against the fabric of my shirt, or how the silence felt between us. I won’t think about all the ways I wish to kiss him and taste him and learn him. Instead, I will sit here and get a little laugh from this vulgar cartoon, and I will let my mind think of anyone except…

The sound of a soft knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. It’s gentle and hesitant, and for a moment, I wonder if perhaps I’ve just imagined it. It’s only when a second knock, just as gentle and timid as the first, sounds out that I fully turn my attention to the door. I drag a hand along my face and glance at my watch. It’s just now 1 am. The only person I imagine it could be is perhaps an RA or maybe campus safety, looking for a student, who knows.

With a quick sigh, I shove myself up off the couch and head to the door, opening it just a crack. I’m a little taken aback when I’m met with, not my RA, but a freckled face hosting a nervous, hesitant smile.

“Hey.” Marco says quietly, careful to keep his voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the hall.

“Hey…” I mutter, trying to disguise the surprise in my voice as I open the door more fully. I figured he would have been asleep at this hour. “What’s up?” I whisper to him.

Marco’s got a light Henley on and some sweatpants, and there’s a look on his face that I can’t really place. It’s an odd look, one that looks like it doesn’t belong but one that I’ve seen him give many times before.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be up.” He says softly with a shrug. He then brings his left hand into view. He’s clasping a clear bottle with an amber liquid inside it. Through his fingers, I note the label. There’s a little red devil on it and the words  _“Fireball: Cinnamon Whiskey”_ . Marco jiggles the bottle a little, shaking the liquid as he shoots me a weak, uneasy smile.

“I, uh, I come bearing liquor.” He says, holding it up as if it’s a peace offering between the two of us, holding it as if the two of us needed a peace offering in the first place.

I can’t help but furrow my brow a bit as he huffs.

“Do you wanna hang out?” He breathes out, and I can’t tell if he’s flustered or if he’s just tired. …Probably just tired, I figure, noting the slight dark hue underneath his eyes. He doesn’t look exhausted or anything, merely a tad weary after a long day. I eye the bottle of whiskey in his hand and the half-smile on his face and I just can’t help but grin a little at him and gesture him inside.

“That a yes?” He asks me as he enters.

I nod to him and speak to him in a hushed whisper, loud enough to be heard over the television, but not loud enough that my suitemates might hear.

“Yeah. We probably shouldn’t here though… Everyone’s asleep.”

Marco cringes minutely and lowers his own voice as he glances at the doors of the bedrooms.

“Oh shit, I didn’t wake you up did I? I wasn’t really sure… if you’d be up.” Marco’s voice sounds almost nervous, but it’s hard to tell through the quiet of his whispers. This whole encounter is odd, and I can’t exactly deny it. I hadn’t exactly expected to see him again today, and frankly, it’s weird to see Marco so nervous… weird seeing him behave so uneasily. I’m used to being the awkward one, the uncomfortable one, the one who seems like he’s stepping on eggshells. And so I smile at him.

“Nooo, no, no.” I tell him quickly, shaking my head and gesturing to the TV. “I was just working on fusing my ass into the couch and watching TV, no worries. I got a nap earlier.”

Marco grins at that, his expression calming a bit.

“My room, then?” His fingers clutch the bottle a little more tightly.

I just nod.

“Lemme grab my jacket.”

I retreat quickly into my bedroom, flitting through my closet to grab a light zip-up. It’s only as I turn out of the closet to leave that I notice Marco’s jacket draped lightly over the back of my desk chair. I haven’t touched it since that night on the docks, when I so abruptly ran away from him, not even noting that I was still wearing it. I stare at it for a moment more and approach it. I glance back at my bedroom door – it’s only slightly ajar, and he likely can’t see in. I grab the jacket and bring it close.

It still smells like him. I haven’t touched the damn thing since that night, and yet it still is lush with the aroma of his cologne and detergent and skin.

I sigh. I should give it back to him.

I clench the fabric between my fingers, still silently debating whether or not to take it and give it back. I’m not even debating this because I want to keep the damn thing, no… No, I just don’t want to risk bringing that night up again. This jacket is a goddamn sore thumb from that night, a thing that sticks out as a rude reminder of that evening. Marco and I haven’t even talked about it since that night during spring break when we met in the fitness center. Our calmness towards each other has been tentative at best, at least on my end… Do I really want to risk bringing that night back up because of a jacket? Or is it worse if I just hold onto it? Surely he is aware of its absence…

Ugh. I hang my head, resolving myself. I’ll give it back to him. Maybe he won’t say anything.

I emerge from my room, my own jacket on, and Marco’s in hand. I hold it out to him, attempting to sound as collected as possible.

“Hey, uh, here’s your jacket, by the way.”

Marco glances down at it, his brow furrowing for a single instant before it relaxes and calms. He takes the jacket from me, sets the liquor down, and shrugs it on.

“Oh, great, thanks.”

Once it’s on, he grabs the liquor up and smiles at me.

“Ready?” He asks.

And that’s that.

**::**

We walk to Marco’s dorm in relative silence, the only sounds the light scuffing of our shoes along the sidewalk. I want to say that it’s an uncomfortable silence, but it really isn’t. It’s just quiet. Easy and quiet, like we were earlier this evening during the ride back. As we ascend the stairs to the third floor, I do my best to block out the memories of the top of this stairwell… The stairwell where Marco – blitzed off his ass – had unceremoniously caged me against the wall, whispered my name, leaned down towards me, close, too close, and edging closer…

I shake my head, trailing behind Marco as we ascend. I can’t think of stuff like that… He and I are supposed to be letting things settle back to normal (or at least, as normal as the two of us can manage after the uh, mishap, so to speak, on the dock). Thinking about all those things now isn’t going to do either of us any good. Me, especially.

As we enter his room, I watch as Marco flitters about. He flips on the lights and sets down the Fireball, moving to boot up his laptop and grab some cups, shot glasses, and a couple cans of coke for the two of us. I stand in the middle of the room, and I honestly expect things to be a bit awkward. And lo, and behold, they are. I can only hope my nerves might settle once a little alcohol makes its way into my system. That’s probably not a healthy way to handle any of this, but I never claimed to be a great decision maker.

Marco is still moving about the room, plugging up his speakers, and I eye his bed idly. It’s unmade, unkempt, the covers ruffled up as if he had just been lying in it. Maybe he had been. Maybe he’d been in bed before coming to my dorm; maybe a trip to my room was the last minute decision of a restless mind. Maybe I should be flattered.

I watch him pull up his music and fire up a random playlist, careful to make sure that the volume isn’t up too high. I opt not to sit on his bed, that’s not a place for me… Not now, not ever. So I stand. The music starts to play, and it doesn’t take me long to recognize the song. It’s  [ “In Front of Me” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fzW4ja29lw) by Infected Mushroom. How appropriate, Jesus fucking Christ… The music plays, the lyrics rhythmically lulling out  _“Why can’t I see… what’s in front of me…?”_ , I cannot hope to get some liquor in me fast enough.

It doesn’t take Marco long though, already uncapping the Fireball and pouring out two shots for us. He pops open a can of coke and turns to me. He grabs one of the shots, and holds it out for me. It’s filled almost to the brim, threatening to spill over the edge, but never actually escaping.

“You want it mixed or straight?” Marco asks.

I shrug. I want to tell him to just give me the shot straight.  _Gimme all you got, I’m a man, I can take it!_ But puffed up chests aside, I’ve never actually had Fireball and I don’t particularly like cinnamon… and I also don’t like whiskey…

“Never had it.” I tell him flatly.

“It’s really good.” He says, stilling holding the shot out for me. I must have a skeptical look on my face though, because he speaks again quickly. “I don’t like cinnamon at all, and I can hardly drink any liquor straight, but I have no problem drinking this. It’s good. Wouldn’t lie to you.”

I smile at him, and without another word, I take the shot glass from his hand. I trust him. He grabs his own glass and turns to me, holding it up for a toast.

“To uh…” Marco starts, thinking about his words, “To Bertholdt and the fact that neither of us have to sit behind him and get drenched in the sweat monsoon.”

I can’t help but laugh, the jostle of my chortle rocking the shot glass just enough so that a couple drops finally make a break for it. I feel the whiskey drip down the edge a bit and onto my finger, but I pay it no mind, clinking my glass up against Marco’s.

“Cheers, cause Reiner was fuckin’  _drenched_ today.” I say, and immediately lean down to tap my glass against the desk. But I watch as Marco doesn’t mimic my actions. He just up and shoots his liquor. My mouth opens a little, not yet taking my own shot.

“Aw, duuuuude…” I whine at him.

He swallows the shot with a mild grimace and looks at me, my full shot glass still between my fingers.

“What??” He asks, absently wiping a small drop from the corner of his mouth.

I shake my head and throw back my own drink with a cough. The liquor burns my throat, but it’s a warm and pleasant sort of burn, so unlike the usual harsh sensation of drinking liquor straight. Marco was right though, this stuff is great. With another brief cough, I look at him and set my glass down on his desk.

“You ruined it, man.”

“Ruined what?” He asks, voice laced with mild faux-offense.

“You didn’t tap the shot.” I tell him, already grabbing the bottle of Fireball to pour two more for us. “See, now we gotta do it all over again…”

“I ruined nothing, I think you just want another shot.”

“…That is also true, but you  _did_ ruin it.”

“How?” He asks with a laugh, quirking his brown at me and smirking.

I pause at his expression, pausing before pouring us two more shots. There’s a hot, fuzzy warmth that’s spreading quickly through my stomach as I look at him, and I have to tell myself over and over that it’s just the liquor. It’s  _just_ _the liquor_ .

“Well, you can’t just toast and take the shot.” I tell him flatly.

“Why not?”

“…Because… because you just… can’t.”

“Uh huh…”

I breathe out and set the bottle of Fireball down on the desk and grab up my empty shot glass.

“Okay, look. You gotta clink it…” I say, miming a typical toast with the empty glass, as if I were tapping it up against another invisible one, “then you gotta tap it,” I then tap the bottom of the shot glass against his desk, “And  _then_ you take it.” I wrap up my instructions with a mime of taking an invisible shot.

He raises his brow at me.

“Got it?” I ask. “You clink, tap,  _then_ take.” I mime the three gestures one more time and Marco just shakes his head and laughs.

“Why, pray tell?”

“Because. Because you just have to.”

“…That’s silly.”

“Hey now, I let you maul my couch to death to make a cushion palette. You can darn well tap a shot glass on a desk for me.”

Marco giggles at that and puts his hands up in surrender.

“Fair enough, fair enough.”

I nod and fill both our glasses again. He grabs his up and faces me fully.

“Okay, so tap, clink, shoot?” He asks with a grin.

“No, no. Clink, tap, sh-” It’s only then that I notice his single raised eyebrow. I hadn’t noted the sarcasm in his voice. “Oh, you’re an asshole.”

“I know. I got it though, let’s go.”

“Fine. Okay uh…” I start, trying to think of something to toast to, I think back to Levi’s conversation with me and Marco before break. I clear my throat. “To Coach Levi… for managing to be utterly terrifying while still standing a foot shorter than me.”

“I’ll drink to that, goddamn.”

Marco clinks his glass with mine and follows my motions as I tap the bottom of my glass against the desk. He and I shoot the drink together, and even as he coughs at the burn, his grin doesn’t leave his face.

“That better, your majesty?” He jibes with a laugh, elbowing me lightly.

“Much. And ah yes, good to see you finally giving me the respect I deserve.”

“Oh god, what have I done? I’m gunna turn you into a monster.” He says sarcastically, taking a quick sip of coke before passing the can to me.

“I’m already a monster, you’re just an enabler.”

I sip the coke and wink. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but things actually feel okay right now. And I like it.

**::**

Time falls in and out of focus, as it always tends to do whenever I’m around Marco. He and I drink and listen to music; we cut up together like things have never been awkward or uncomfortable between us. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s giving us our easiness, but I have to admit, I’m extremely happy about the way this evening is going. If you had asked me at the race if this would be happening this evening, I would have shaken my head and say no way, but now look at us.

Before I know it, Marco and I are  _definitely_ tipsy, maybe even on our way to drunk. We both made our way to the floor a while ago, and now we’re simply sprawled out across his rug like children… like drunk little children. And intoxicated-me finds the idea of drunk children  _very_ amusing. I let a small giggle slip past my lips. Marco turns his head and looks at me.

“Wha’so funny?” He asks.

I giggle again.

“Jus' thinkin’ about drunk five year olds.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he breaks out in a huge grin and starts giggling too. Before I know it, we’re both laughing, lying side by side, shoulder to shoulder on the floor as our chests shake with laughter.

Eventually, our giggles subside, and the conversation lulls into comfortable silence until beside me, Marco sits up dramatically. He reaches down and grabs my shoulder, giving me a brief shake.

“Jean. I’m bored, let’s go walk around.” He demands.

“Walk where?” I drawl, relaxed and comfortable. I stretch my body out along the floor, simply allowing myself to enjoy the fluffy, fuzzy buzz that’s steadily creeping its way throughout my body. I’m letting myself simply enjoy Marco’s company, as if all is completely right in our world.

Marco shrugs.

“I ‘unno. Just around.”

I stare up at him. Sitting to my left, he stares down at me fondly as I’m sprawled across his bedroom floor. I want to imagine that this is right. This is where I belong. I’m reminded vaguely of the drive back from our first regatta, riding together in silence, enjoying the music, and smiling at each other in the quiet. Not regretful like the drive we shared today. Once again, I let myself pretend that this is how things are supposed to be. Easy and comfortable, soft music lulling through the room, and Marco by my side, this is how I  _wanted_ things to be.

Absently, I drag my tongue along the expanse of my teeth. They’re starting to feel a little numb and tingly: I probably shouldn’t drink anymore… Numb teeth means that I’m teetering on the line between buzzed and drunk. Best to stop now.

Looking up, I watch Marco mimic the motion, tracing his tongue along the edges of his teeth as he grins down at me. I furrow my brow. Sitting here and looking up at him as he copies my motions, I can’t help but watch his mouth. For the first time in a long time, when I look at it, I don’t see fangs. I see pretty, white teeth, the canine on one side a little duller than on the other side, maybe from grinding in his sleep. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he doesn’t look deadly, he doesn’t look threatening. He looks like home. He looks like comfort.

I can’t help but smile up at him. Maybe I’m just a little too tipsy, a little too comfortable, and I don’t really know what all this means, but I’m okay with it.

Marco really does have a beautiful smile though. It’s a smile that had angered me just last week, one that I felt he had no right to shoot me. It’s soft and private, and I think deep down, I’ve always known about how gentle of a soul he truly is. But I had been so busy trying to sharpen his teeth into vicious points that I never truly appreciated his actual tenderness.

I sigh gently and lift up to a sitting position.

“Alright, let’s go.” I tell him, already pushing up to stand.

**::**

The night is cool and calm and I love the way it smells. It’s crisp and earthy, like grass and trees, and it’s tangling nicely with the gentle aroma of Marco’s laundry detergent and cologne as he and I walk side by side.

“I love this campus…” Marco whispers softly, glancing around at the buildings as we stroll. “It’s just so… unique.”

I glance around as well. He’s certainly right. Trost University is widely known for its beautiful and intricate campus. It’s full of large, gothic buildings, built of multicolored stones, each brick seemingly unique and lively. I nod at him.

“It really is.” I pause and bump his shoulder with mine. “Did you know that all the stones used in the buildings on campus come from a single quarry?”

Marco turns to face me and grins, his eyes attentive and focused like he can’t wait for me to speak again.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s the Reiss Quarry on the outskirts of Trost. The family owned the quarry for gosh, like 100 years or something. We always bought from them, and for a while, I think T.U. was their primary customer. But I think 20 years ago or so, the family decided they were going to sell it and the new buyer wasn’t planning on providing to T.U. anymore. He wanted to use it for something else, I dunno what exactly. But anyway, the school officials went to the Reiss family and made them a huge offer to sell the quarry to us. The family agreed and now T.U. has sole rights to the quarry and we still use bricks from it for all the new buildings.”

“Wow, really?”

“Really, really.”

“That’s so wild…” Marco says, turning his head and looking at the buildings some more. “I didn’t know there was that much history here.”

I hum softly as we meander around in the night. I still feel light and fuzzy, holding onto my buzz but never slipping into uncomfortable drunkenness. This is what I love. I feel his arm brushing against mine as the two of us walk and I can’t help the little smile that edges its way onto my lips. I love this… I missed this. I missed feeling comfortable in Marco’s presence, I missed the true feeling of his companionship. I think back to earlier today and how I hadn’t fully known how to handle myself… And like I said, maybe it’s just the alcohol, but right now, things feel normal, or at least, relatively so, and it’s nice… It’s nice.

We’ve looped around the campus at least twice now, and it’s only just now that I think to ask.

“So, you ridden the Titan yet?”

Marco stops walking and gives me a confused look.

“What?”

I keep walking and Marco moves to catch up to me. I shrug.

“The semester’s almost up, have you ridden it yet?”

“I’m not… sure what you’re talking about.” He tells me, clearly befuddled. I turn to stare at him and raise my eyebrow.

“Wait, you serious? Did no one tell you about this??”

“Tell me about  _what_ ??”

It’s my turn to stop walking this time.

“Oh my god, Marco.”

"Oh my god, Jean, what?”

I take a glance down at my watch. It’s almost 3 am.

“Okay, come with me.” I tell him, putting my hands on his shoulders and turning us around to start walking in the opposite direction. “It’s late so we should be fine.”

“Fine for what?”

Walking by his side again, headed towards the opposite side of campus, I answer him.

“Okay, so, you know the Titan, right?”

“The Titan?”

“Yeah, by Sina Hall?”

“Sina Ha-… Oh, the fuckin’ statue?”

“Yeah, the statue.”

“What about it??”

“It’s this big rite of passage here, right? Everyone has to climb and ride the Titan at least once during their first semester here or supposedly, they won’t graduate.”

“…Ride it? How tall is it?”

“Oh, it’s only like 7 feet, don’t worry.”

“Have you ridden it?”

I look at him in disbelief.

“Uh,  _duh_ . I want to graduate, thanks.”

I hear Marco sigh dramatically beside me.

“Oh for the love of god, Jean.” He says. He sounds exasperated, and I’m already preparing myself to try and defend the ritual against his accusations before he sighs and speaks again. “How could no one tell me?? What if I never found out? I would never graduate!”

I laugh at his faux-panic as the two of us steadily approach Sina Hall.

“Well, don’t worry, I’m your savior and there’s still time. You’ll graduate if I have to haul your ass up on the statue myself.”

The statue stands on the far side of the building, erected in the middle of a small garden. I don’t hesitate before leading Marco around the building, the two of us slinking around to the back side of the hall where the statue resides.

The Titan statue truly is an impressive one, if you ask me. It’s a bulking, muscular humanoid figure, coated in what appears to be a hardened armor made of its own flesh. The hulking beast is posed in a crouch, like a runner at the start of a sprint, as if it is preparing to launch itself forward and barrel towards a foe. We approach it quietly, the two of us eyeing its impressive form.

“Okay,” Marco breathes out as the two of us stand in front of it, “So what’s the best way to do this?”

I let my eyes graze over the statue, trying to remember how I had done it during my first semester here. I clear my throat and point towards the back of its leg.

“Pretty sure I just braced my foot on the back of the bent knee, hoisted up, and then just walked along its back to the shoulders.”

Due to the statue’s crouched form, it doesn’t stand that high off the ground and its back is relatively flat and easy to traverse. But the two of us, while not necessarily drunk, definitely still have some alcohol flowing through us and Marco shoots me a questioning look.

He doesn’t even need to ask.

“I’ll spot you, don’t worry. Won’t let you get hurt.”

With a quick 360° glance around us, I check for other students and campus safety vehicles or personnel, ensuring that no one else is around. Once I’m sure there’s no one we need to worry about, I nod quickly to Marco. He nods back and steps forward with me.

One hand placed against my shoulder, he braces one foot on the back of the statue’s knee and hoists himself up. He takes a second to gain his balance and composure, but once he does, he shoots me a quick smile as I stand beneath him. I grin back, ear to ear, feeling just as much like a kid as I did in freshman year when I made the climb myself.

“Don’t let me fall.” He tells me.

“Well, I can’t stop you from falling, but I’ll definitely catch you if you do.”

Marco nods at me and carefully turns and steps his way along the slight curve of the figures back before pausing as he reaches the shoulders. I make sure to stay in line with him, keeping my body directly under where he stands, ready to catch him if he were to lose his balance.

He stands at the shoulders and glances down at me with an inquisitive grin. He shrugs and gestures at the shoulders.

“Now what??”

I hold my finger up, reaching into my pocket and grabbing my phone. I flick open the camera.

“Now we need proof.”

“Wait, what do I do?”

“Just pose, do whatever!” I whisper up to him in the dark night.

Marco pauses for a moment, looking at the shoulders as if considering and weighing his options for a pose. He finally seems to settle on an idea and begins to move his body into position. One of his legs hoists up and he braces his foot on the base of the Titan’s skull. He angles himself then to pose as if he were holding swords, directed at the figure’s nape.

“I’m a Titan slayer!” He laughs.

“Perfect, now hold still, mighty warrior!”

I make sure the flash is on and step back, doing my best to center the picture. Unfortunately, it’s dark out, and my whole screen is black in the darkness. I just have to hope that I’ve got it as centered as I can.

“Wait, wait! Do I smile?” Marco asks me frantically.

I laugh again, doing my damn best to control my giggles in the quiet evening. The alcohol in my system is making it a lot harder than it should be though. I shake my head.

“I don’t care, just hold still.”

At first, Marco puts on a serious face, doing his best to keep the smile off it. But as I move to snap the picture, he seems to break. His face cracks a bit and a wide, boisterous grin plasters its way onto his lips. By the time the flash fires, the picture I take is of him with his eyes shut and grinning ear to ear like smiling is the only thing he knows how to do.

“Got it!” I tell him.

“No, no! I smiled!” He protests.

“It looks good, just come down! We aren’t…  _technically_ supposed to be doing this.”

“Okay, okay!” He says, beginning to angle himself and preparing to hop down. “You’re a bad influence, Mr. Kirschstein. I used to be such a good boy.” He grumbles, settling down into a crouch. He looks down at me as I make my way back to stand close under him.

“Okay, I’m gunna just kinda, slide off. Don’t let me bust my ass.”

“Cross my heart.” I promise him.

He nods at me as I ready myself, reaching my arms out, standing ready to catch and stabilize him if he needs it. Marco slides off quickly, landing a bit haphazardly on his feet and stumbling as my arms reach out to stabilize him. Once he steadies himself, he doesn’t move. Instead, he and I stand there silently. My arms are braced against his, standing face to face with him wordlessly. Maybe it’s the buzz I still have going, maybe it’s the peace and the stillness of the evening, and maybe it’s the smile on Marco’s face, but I just can’t make myself let go of him and look away.

I know undoubtedly that I  _should_ . The last time the two of us were this close was on the docks, and he and I both know exactly how that ended. But I can’t look away.

And Marco isn’t looking away either. The smile on his face steadily fades as he stares at me, but his expression stays soft and focused. Perhaps if I were sober, I would be pulling away from him in an instant, perhaps I would be angry at Marco for behaving this way. For cozying up, getting close, for not keeping a distance between us… for allowing this pseudo-sense of intimacy to be fostered today. But I can’t be angry, not now.

I can’t pull away.

Marco still hasn’t let go of my arms, fingers gentle against my forearms even through the fabric of my jacket, my own hands cradling his elbows. He looks at me, opens his mouth softly.

“Jean… I…” He starts, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish. Suddenly, a bright pair of headlights interrupts us, edging around the building from the road and illuminating the grass a few feet to our right.

“Shit!” Marco and I both swear, and I don’t even hesitate before ushering him in the opposite direction of the lights. The two of us run quickly as the sound of a car door opens and closes. On adrenaline alone, I grab ahold of Marco’s arm as we run, giving him a quick yank and tumbling the two of us into the bushes.

We stumble into the leaves with an “oomph!” before the two of us immediately quiet down and silence ourselves. We’re both on the lookout for the unknown visitor, the now illuminated statue is still in my sights, even from the bushes. My guess is that it’s a campus safety officer. Students aren’t exactly allowed to climb the Titan, and the ritual is well known amongst the campus officers, so they frequently come and check things out to make sure students aren’t doing exactly what Marco and I were just doing.

I peek through the leaves. A female figure, donning a black uniform, strides towards to the statue. Once illuminated by the headlights of her vehicle, I immediately recognize her blonde hair. It looks like Officer Leonhardt. Marco and I can only hope she doesn’t catch us; Annie Leonhardt has precisely  _zero_ patience for the kind of nonsense Marco and I were just getting up to. I watch as she shines her flashlight around the statue and the surrounding garden, very briefly shining over towards our bush. At this point, I think we’re far enough away that her light won’t give her an honest view of us, but I still don’t think either of us are breathing, too nervous to make a sound and get caught. 

Officer Leonhardt eventually points her light away from us, steadily retreating back to her car. As she does so, I hear Marco let out a snorting giggling beside me, unable to contain himself. I don’t even hesitate to slap my hand over his mouth, all while trying my damnedest to suppress my own laughter.

“Sh-shut up, you idiot!” I whisper through my smile, feeling his breath against my palm as he continues to chortle.

We wait for another moment, listening to the sound of tires rolling against pavement as Officer Leonhardt (presumably) drives away. I listen for another couple beats, doing my best to ensure that she has left, before I uncover Marco’s mouth. The idiot is still giggling, even as the two of us stand and steadily extract ourselves from the bushes.

“Almost got us caught, dumbass.” I laugh at him, reaching out and grabbing his hands to haul him from the brush.

“Yeeeeah, I guess a ritual to ensure I graduate doesn’t do much good if I get expelled, huh?”

“Ya think?” I snark at him.

Marco smiles again and rakes a hand through his hair, ruffling up the strands and shaking out a couple of leaves and twigs. After a moment, he focuses on me. I see him start to reach his hand out for me, but he stops himself quickly.

“You uh… leaves…” he says, idly gesturing towards my hair. But I don’t reach up to remove them. Instead, I wait… Waiting for… I don’t know… I guess waiting for Marco to do it for me.

He’s hesitant at first, reaching forward and gingerly plucking out a couple small twigs from my hair. But I see the moment when he pauses and questions himself. I shouldn’t be letting him do this in the first place. I should have stopped him before he even started. But I didn’t, and it only takes another second before he threads his fingers firmly through my locks. It only lasts a couple of seconds, his fingers ruffling stray bits and pieces from my scalp and hair, but it feels like a blessed eternity. I shouldn’t be doing this… Why am I doing this? I know better than this… I should know better.

But before I can think any more about it, Marco’s already done, already withdrawing his hand and darting his eyes away from me. He clears his throat idly.

That was too far, too much. That was a line I shouldn’t have crossed, a line I shouldn’t have let  _him_ cross. I should be angry; at him, at myself, and part of me is even expecting him to call me out for letting him do that. Call me out for so obviously enjoying his touch. But he doesn’t. Instead, he simply steps to my side with a mumble.

“Hey, lemme see the pic.”

**::**

By the time Marco and I make it back to his dorm, it’s pushing 4:15 in the morning. My buzz has more or less faded, having slipped away during our misadventures, and Marco’s appears to have done the same. But I’m tired… Tired as I’ve ever been. After all the excitement and the alcohol, a warm, heavy sleepiness has settled over me.

We return without much talk, and I’m trying to do my goddamn best not to read into this evening too much. This had been fun, this had been a fun night hanging out with my  _friend_ . Full of alcohol and excitement, it isn’t everything I could hope for, but it was still good. And I’m steadily coming to realize that the things I want from Marco don’t and shouldn’t matter than much at the end of everything. I can’t hold Marco’s hand, I can’t push his hair from his eyes or press my lips soft against his own, but that’s okay, I suppose. Because I can still make him laugh, watch him smile, take him on stupid little adventures that almost get the two of us into trouble. I can be responsible for things that make him happy and that’s almost as good.

Sliding into his dorm, he and I shuck our jackets off. He taps my shoulder and turns around, showing me the back of his shirt.

“Okay, spider check.” Marco says softly, expecting me to make sure he hasn’t acquired any creepy-crawlies from the bushes.

It’s just too tempting… I can’t help myself.

As I stare at him, pretending to investigate, I let my eyes go a little wide, opening my mouth a bit and plastering a look of mild fear on my face.

He notices almost immediately.

“Oh god, what?”

“Jesus…” I mumble and Marco’s eyes widen.

“What, what is it???” He asks, trying desperately now to crane his head back and look at whatever is supposedly on his back.

“It’s…” I mumble, starting to move towards him and taking a step back again. Damn I’m a good actor.

“Get it off, get it off!”

He’s already flinging his arms back and brushing at his back before he notices the grin that’s steadily slinking onto my face. Marco stops immediately and glares at me, his shoulders dropping with a sigh.

“Oh, man, there’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

I can’t hold in my laughter anymore. I cackle out into the otherwise quiet room.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Couldn’t resist!” 

Marco just glares at me. I do my best to stop my laughs.

“But no, really, you’re fine. Nothin’ on you.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.” I groan, moving and settling down to sit on his bed. I didn’t even think twice about sitting on it this time. I don’t know why.

With a quick smile that I watch him try to hide, he turns back to the abandoned half-empty Fireball bottle sitting on his desk. He grabs it and holds it up, shaking it a little in my direction.

“Want some more?” He asks idly.

I glance at my watch before running both my hands over my face. It’s so late and I am a bit tired, but I really don’t want to go. I rub my eyes. I should go, honestly, and I know it… I certainly don’t need any more to drink tonight. But I don’t want to leave. I’m afraid to leave. I’m afraid that after I leave, this relative comfort and normalcy we’ve had tonight will disappear. I’m afraid that if I leave, this easiness we have will disappear. Tomorrow will be just like every other day as of late. Once the fuzzy haze of alcohol and music and laughter wears off, we’ll be back to how we were. Awkward and tense, uneasy and unsure of each other, consistently on edge all because of the bullshit I pulled on the dock.

With what little resolve I can muster, I groan and stand though.

“Ah, I should probably go…”

It’s what’s best, even if it’s not what I want.

“Oh… Okay.” Marco says with a nod. He pats me on the shoulder gently and I smile at him, grabbing up my jacket and heading towards the door.  “I had a lot of fun, Jean…” He says from behind me. “I missed this, you know?”

I pause, my hand on the doorknob. I crane back to look at him and smile.

“I missed it too.”

I turn my head back and turn the knob. I only open the door a hair before I feel Marco grab onto my hand. I try my best not to startle at the contact, turning back to look at him again.

“You don’t… you don’t have to go, you know? If you don’t want to…” Marco mumbles softly, locking his gaze with mine.

I can only stare at him, unsure of what to do in this moment. Unsure of what that statement even means. Marco seems to notice my confusion though and he speaks again.

“We can just hang out a little longer if you want…” He stammers uneasily.

He still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Yeah… but it’s… it’s late.”

And if I don’t leave now, I know I won’t be able to leave at all. I know that if I don’t leave now, I won’t be able to make sure that nothing happens that I don’t mean to have happen.

It’s all I can do to ignore the feeling of his fingers gently holding my own.

Why hasn’t he let go?

“Yeah…” He mumbles, “You’re right…”

Steadily, he relinquishes my fingers from his grip and my arm drops listlessly back to my side. I should go… I should go right now, but I don’t. I don’t  _want_ to, Marco. But I can’t stay either. With the last inkling of my resolve, I start to turn back to exit his room, but Marco quickly has a hand on my arm, stopping me once again.

He turns me around quickly and envelops me unceremoniously into a hug.

I’m flush against his chest with both his arms wrapped around me fully. There’s an instant when I don’t move, because this is the first hug I’ve gotten from him since before… before the kiss. And I’m not entirely sure what I should do. But Marco hasn’t let go yet, and all I have left to do is wind my arms around him in return.

We hug for a moment, a moment that feels like an eternity as I grip him, trying my damnedest not to let my eyes slip closed as he embraces me. Marco is first to release me, separating the two of us slowly.

As he smiles at me, I don’t know what to think other than that I wish he hadn’t done that.

He pats my shoulder gently and I wish to god he hadn’t hugged me. I wish to god that he hadn’t reminded me of the way his body feels against mine.

With a brief nod, he lowers his hand, eliminating all contact between us.

“Thanks for a fun night, Jean. And thanks for making sure I graduate.”

I smile nervous back at him and chuckle softly.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Send me that picture, will ya?”

I nod slowly, turning around and moving into the hallway.

“Sure thing.”

“Goodnight, Jean.”

I’m already taking a couple steps back and away from his room.

“Goodnight, Marco.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the riding the Titan scene. Obviously, the Titan statue was based off of the Armored Titan's form, in a crouched down pose. But the whole idea of the Rite of Passage was actually based on my college. We had a statue of our mascot and it was tradition that every student had to ride the mascot at some point during their freshman year or their first semester or else they wouldn't graduate. (And yes, I rode it. I graduated, didn't I?) 
> 
> Thanks a bunch for your patience with this chapter. We only have a couple more to go! Gunna be earning that "EXPLICIT" rating I used soon! So stay tuned. 
> 
> I can't thank y'all enough for your continued support. Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> As usual, I have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). And if you're curious about a tag for the fic, I have been using "#fic: steady to the catch" and "#fic: sttc".


	15. Layback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//And I'll have a bright yellow boat_   
>  _With nothing to row_   
>  _So make mine an oar out of luck_   
>  _Here's to you, you miserable fuck//_
> 
> Keaton Henson || To Your Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ALL SHOULD CHECK OUT THIS **AMAZING** FANART THAT [leonhardt](http://leonhardt.co.vu/) DID: YOU CAN FIND IT [HERE](http://leonhardt.co.vu/post/112728044766/okay-so-there-is-this-awesome-rowing-au-that-i-was). So so lovely!! Thank you again for that, hun!! 
> 
> **Chapter Terms**  
>  No rowing terms this time, but some other terms!  
>  **Hookah:** An Eastern water pipe made for smoking Shisha Tobacco. [Hookah](https://www.thehookahhype.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/KM-Black-Shareef-Hookah2.jpg)  
>  **Hookah Lounge/Bar:** A lounge-type place where people can come and relax and smoke. They are usually beautifully decorated and very calm and tranquil to be in. Here is the inside of one of the hookah lounges in my home town: [Hookah Lounge](http://a4.urbancdn.com/w/s/r8/0lDGiitKMD7nBP-640m.jpg)
> 
> And if anyone is curious about what the smoke trick that Jean does actually looks like, here is a video of me doing the same trick. [Cheerio Smoke Rings](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/117309326378/me-blowing-some-cheerio-smoke-rings-while) (I also added in the comment about it being sorcery because of my friend, Ashley, [only-an-entity](http://only-an-entity.tumblr.com), said the exact same thing when she saw the trick. 
> 
> This chapter features a scene of Samuel/Jean, just as a heads up.

I’ve never really been one for partying. Don’t get me wrong, the occasional party where you have the chance to get sloppy drunk is totally fine by me, but I’ve just never really been one who wanted to live it up each and every weekend. That’s honestly one of many reasons why I never saw myself fit for Greek life. (Granted, if I’m honest, it’s quite likely that one of the _major_ reasons I never went far with fraternal organizations was because I decided it would be hilarious to wear my homemade t-shirt that read “ **Epsilon Alpha Delta: Eat A Dick** ” during Rush Week. Needless to say, not many frats were all that impressed with it… But that’s a story for another day).

That being said, once in a while one of the frats or sororities manages to lure me in. Most of the time, it’s the Sigma Nu fraternity. For the most part, Greek life is a pretty restrictive arena: most events are only open to a specific fraternity or sorority, and non-affiliated members need not show their faces. But once in a while, the groups will throw “open parties” – gatherings that are open to anyone and everyone on the campus who wants to attend. Like I said, usually I skip out. Hell, the most amount of time I spent partying was probably my freshman year when I would accompany Daniel to a few of his frat’s parties. But I digress, most of the time I skip out on Greek events. It just isn’t my crowd.

However, Sigma Nu – a fraternity consisting mostly of academics and even a few rowers – has always been a welcoming bunch of fuckers. So usually whenever I hear they’re holding an open party, I’m a bit more interested in attending. They’re also one of the only fraternities on campus who has always maintained a positive and welcoming attitude towards LGBTQA individuals. (It probably isn’t too surprising that ‘homo’ doesn’t typically go over well amongst the usual Dude-Bros that make up fraternity life). So when Connie brings up the party and the fact that Sigma Nu will be hosting it, I find myself agreeing to attend with relative ease, especially considering the fact that the majority of my friends would be going. That alone makes it a little harder for me to back out, even if it means yet another party where I’ll likely be stuck by Marco’s side.

Sometimes I feel like this atrocious cycle between Marco and myself will never end. Sometimes it feels like he and I are simply stuck circling a drain. As the water empties beneath us, we inch closer and closer towards an oblivion in which our friendship might not be possible. But every time the water circles, there’s a moment when he and I get sloshed a little bit back up towards the surface; we’re given a breath, given hope that perhaps our friendship is enough to thrive on. But it never is, at least not for me. Each gasping breath is followed only by the vortical pulls that yank us further down.

The breaths are never enough. The liquor can soothe our awkwardness, and I can make him laugh and smile, and take him on adventures, but it never seems to cease the empty ache that yearns to hollow out my chest. Why couldn’t he have just gone back up to the surface without me?

As Saturday approaches, I actually find myself thinking about bailing. Marco and I haven’t done anything together outside of class or crew since the night I took him to ride the Titan. And – even though I’ve told myself this a million times – maybe the best option for us is to only be casual acquaintances. Because I can’t have him doing the things he likes to do around me. He sits too close, he touches too much, he’s too goddamn friendly and thoughtful, and my brain just can’t accept that that’s just how Marco is. My stupid, desperate little heart can’t accept that sometimes friends are just that: _friends_.

Maybe I could play sick, or tired, or something along those lines. But no, I really can’t. I really shouldn’t, if I’m being honest with myself. My default defense mechanism seems to be either self-alienation or lashing out, and like Reiner’s told me plenty of times before, those are shitty ways of dealing with my problems.

Why can’t I just accept his friendship? Why can’t I just accept the beautiful way he smiles at me – the way he smiles at his friend? (Because his smile is so damn beautiful.) Why can’t I just accept the role of best friend? Why am I so selfish?

I suppose if I knew, I wouldn’t be asking these stupid questions.

Ugh.

But I can’t bail. Plus, I kinda want to go to this party.

So I’m going to go.

My plan for handling the evening? Well, to be frank, I don’t have much of one besides “alcohol is a social lubricant”. I’m going and mostly hoping for the best. A little liquor should soothe my interactions with Marco, as it has before, and I’m hoping that I will be able to act like normal friends act. I’m hoping I can act like I do with Reiner and Bertholdt or Connie and Sasha.

I’m hoping I can enjoy myself: laugh, cut up, drink, and goof off without wondering if I’m touching him too much or standing too closely or staring too long. Seemed to work out okay last time for us… But there was still too much closeness… Too much touching. And it’s all just too overwhelming sometimes. And even though he doesn’t owe me jack or shit, I can’t help but hope that when he lingers around me for too long that he will either just punch me or kiss me.

Healthy… I know.

**::**

Despite the sudden onset of nerves, when it comes time to get ready, I get dressed and compose myself fairly quickly… like any adult would. Only Connie and Sasha are in the dorm at the moment, Reiner, Bert, and Marco having run out to the store to procure more booze (the party is supposedly BYOB, but I’m willing to bet there will be at least one keg).

I nurse a beer and laugh with my friends, pretending that all is totally right in the world. By the time the boys return, I’ve already killed off two beers and I’m starting to feel very torn. On the one hand, I could get sloppy drunk and forget all my sorrows for a while… and on the other hand, with Marco around, I really probably should keep at least a modicum of my wits about me. Just in case. Not to mention that getting drunk is _in no way_ a healthy method of handling one’s problems. (Good lord, I sound like the _worst_ After School Special right now).

I watch as my friends begin to create horrible concoctions of alcohol: screw drivers and vodka stingers, cuba libres, and a shot of whiskey for each of us. I stand in the kitchenette with the rest of my friends, Marco making sure to plaster himself to my side with a grin, as Reiner passes out shots to us all.

As Reiner lifts up a glass to toast, I think to myself: eh, what the hell. I deserve a little fun. The last time I severely fucked up around Marco – namely, pressing my mouth hard against his – I was stone sober. What difference does it make if I get a little hammered now? Not like I could do much worse than that. 

I clink my shot glass against my friends’ glasses and we all tap them on the counter (even Marco, as he shoots me a wink), and throw the liquor back.

I’m going to have fun tonight if it kills me.

**::**

By the time the six of us leave my dorm I’m way past tipsy, teeth tingly and body buzzing as we walk together. But I’m definitely not the only one. Reiner’s got a small bag with him that houses the rest of our group’s booze, and periodically one of us inevitably claws into it as we walk to steal a sip or two. I’ll admit that I’m guilty of doing it at least three times before we reach the Sigma Nu house. We all walk together as a group, laughing loud and talking in boisterous, happy voices as if everything were perfectly right and normal in the world.

And it’s probably the booze talking, but yeah, I’m having fun and I’m sorta glad I didn’t bail on the outing, even if Marco does look particularly handsome this evening.

Marco – though giggly and tipsy – seems to be the most composed of the six of us, next to Bertholdt that is. Looks like those two might wind up being tonight’s dedicated baby sitters. Pshh, sucks to be them, I think to myself as we approach the house.

The place is already swarming with people, and as we enter, Connie in the lead, everyone takes care to grab ahold of each other as we weave through the throngs of people. Marco wastes no time in grabbing ahold of my hand and guiding me forward, his other hand rested lightly on Reiner’s shoulder as we make our way through. Finally, through the crowd, with the music thumping and bellowing louder with each step we take, we reach the stairs that lead down towards the house’s basement, where the dance floor likely is. Steadily, we begin to descend and make our way down the stairs and into the pulsating, colorful darkness that waits below. I note idly that Marco still hasn’t let go of my hand. His other hand has slipped casually off of Reiner’s shoulder, but he’s still clasping my fingers inside his own: not tightly, but firmly, guiding me along with care. Normally, I would probably pull away, but fuck it, I’m two beers and six shots deep, so there isn’t a whole lot of reason and logic going on in my skull for me to actually make myself unwind my fingers from his. 

Marco only relinquishes his grip on my hand as our group finds a small corner to hang out in. In the far corner of the basement where we stand, a pool table has been shoved aside in an attempt to create more space for the dance floor. Sasha and Connie waste no time before hopping up onto the table top to sit, crossing their legs beneath them and yanking Reiner down by the bag to dig out their alcohol. I laugh, shaking my head as I lean against the table, not sitting, but relaxing and letting the swirling drunkenness seep its way over my body. Idly, I lean across Sasha and pull my bottle of rum and coke from the bag, uncapping it and taking a quick sip with a slight cringe.

Fucking _strong_. And I like it.

I’m drunk enough at this point that the party seems to pass in front of me in a blur of bodies, alcohol, bright colorful lights, and pounding music. And as I lean against the pool table, Marco leaning on the wall directly to my right, I close my eyes. I listen to the music a bit, feeling it shake and vibrate my body, and I sway with the heavy beat. I only open my eyes when Marco bumps his shoulder against mine gently. I peel open my lids to see him smiling at me. He leans in close to me, and I’m almost ready to rear back and away from him, but he merely places his mouth beside my ear to speak.

“Looks like Reiner and Bert are hitting the floor.” He says into my ear.

I scan my blurry vision over the throbbing group of bodies and spot Colossus and Blondie making their way through the crowd, already dancing up close on each other. I shake my head and smile.

“Never can get ‘em to keep their hands to themshelves-selves.” I slur out with a laugh, and Marco chuckles back and nods, not bothering to reply over the loudness of the music.

Somewhere, in the recesses of my drunken mind, I get an urge to just grab Marco’s hand and drag him out to the middle of the floor and dance with him. But apparently, there’s not enough liquor in the world to make me _that_ crazy. As soon as the thought emerges, it’s gone again, lost beneath a swell of rational, overwhelming thoughts about how I _can’t_ and absolutely _shouldn’t_ do that.

I don’t know how much time passes – it’s hard to keep track when you’ve got this much rum coursing through your body. But it’s got to be at least a few songs. Marco is still standing next to me, occasionally leaning across me to chat with Connie or Sasha, and every now and then I chime in, laughing, even though if you asked me, I probably couldn’t actually tell you what we’re talking about. But eventually, Marco is tapping my shoulder and garnering my attention, leaning close to my ear again.

“Booze is going straight through me, I’m gunna run to the bathroom. Save my spot.”

I nod at him wordlessly and he smiles, claps me on the shoulder, and steps away from the wall.

“Don’t get lost!” I shout at him over the music, and he waves me off with a smile, edging his way through the crowd and disappearing as if it swallowed him whole.

I grin a bit to myself as the song begins to change. I know this song, everyone fuckin’ knows this song. [“Talk Dirty”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbtPXFlZlHg), oh dear lord. At the first sound of that damn trumpet, Connie is up off the pool table and dancing like a goddamn idiot. I watch as Sasha cheers him on and chortle to myself, caught up in a hazy, fuzzy stupor of alcohol and music.

I hardly notice a male form suddenly return to stand at my side.

He taps me on the shoulder, snags my attention, and I’m a bit startled when I turn and see – not Marco – but a face I haven’t seen in quite a while. The man shoots me a smirk before addressing me.

“Jean Kirschstein, as I live and breathe, what brings you around these parts?” He says, leaning down close to my ear so I can hear him.

“Samuel,” I say with a smile, turning a bit to face him, not bothering to put any space between us. “Boozin’, you?”

He holds up a red solo cup, shakes it a little.

“Same.”

I nod silently, letting my eyes drag over his form, taking him in again, for the first time in a while. Samuel’s quite a looker, if I’m being perfectly honest. Dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, crisp body from years of varsity soccer, and a jaw you could cut yourself on.

The two of us had had a minor fling sophomore year, hooking up once in a while whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was never anything serious, but rather something merely to serve as a distraction from Daniel. The affair had been good enough for me – hot and heavy and always mindless and fun: good enough to distract me from whatever shit felt like dragging me down that day.

The guy’s got a damn mouth like a hoover, too. 

What our little fling had been for Samuel, I had never bothered to ask. Hadn’t talked to him much after first semester of sophomore year… Last I knew, he was studying abroad in Spain. Guess he’s back for the semester.

“How’ve you been?” He asks me, once again leaning down into my space.

I shrug at him, take a sip of my drink and glance back up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the haze of the alcohol or the poor lighting in this basement, but I can’t help but note the similarity he bears to Marco. Shaggy hair on top and a light undercut beneath, same broad shoulders, and same bright smile. His eyes don’t have that same rich brown color to them that Marco’s do: his are more of a glimmery silver, but I never really cared that much to look into Samuel’s eyes. But aside from that, just dribble a little paint on his face and he’d be a spitting image.

And isn’t it funny how I seem to think that Samuel looks like Marco and not the other way around? Probably best not to think about that too much. And so I nod at him, responding quickly with a tilt of my head.

“Fine. Same ol’, same ol’ around here.”

I take another long gulp of my drink.

“Good to hear.” Samuel says back to me, leaning his shoulder against the wall and craning his head around to watch the dance floor as the music begins to fade into the next song. The song that comes on next sounds heavier, thicker with bass, with a hint of [Deadmau5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdjneytbxeQ) flare to it. Samuel swings his gaze back to me and flicks his head towards the dance floor.

“Wanna dance?” He asks me casually.

Another swig from my drink – it’s over half gone now – and I shrug.

Fuck it.

“Yeah, man.” I say, handing my bottle over to Connie who quirks an eyebrow at me but takes the drink from me none the less. I don’t bother to spare him a glance to respond to his inquisitive stare, opting instead to simply take Samuel’s hand and let him lead me out into the throws and swells of the dance floor.

The boy certainly doesn’t waste any time, either. As soon as the two of us have found a spot in the crowd, his hands fall to my hips and drag the two of us close together, body flush against body like we’d just fucked yesterday. Yeah. This is good. I can work with this. Samuel has always been a good distraction. The beat pulses hard around us until all I can think about is the way his head is leaning down, first just resting his temple against mine as he grinds on me, before he lowers his mouth to deftly taste at the skin of my neck. Absently, I see Reiner and Bertholdt leaving the crowd of dancing people and heading over to where Connie and Sasha are.

It’s only then that I notice Marco has returned.

I watch, trying my best to appear casual and disinterested. Marco seems to note my absence quickly. Through the haze, I watch as he looks around the room a bit, furrows his brow and turns to Sasha to mumble something to her. The brunette points out in the general direction of the dance floor, and I see Marco’s attention immediately turn to scan the crowd. Samuel’s mouth is still latched hot and heavy against my neck, tongue flicking and tasting my skin and sweat like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him. All I can do his hold onto his hips tightly, keeping our bodies pressed together, as Marco looks and searches across the crowd of people before finally landing his sights on me and meeting my eyes.

He stares at me for a moment, and I stare back… But I can’t read him. I _never_ fucking can, can I? One moment he looks confused, the next calm, and the next perplexed again. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks disappointed… or resigned. But it’s dark and I’m drunk and he’s at the very least tipsy, so who the fuck actually knows anyway.

A hard roll of Samuel’s hips against mine draws my attention away from Marco and back to the boy who’s sucking red marks into the flesh of my neck. Despite the alcohol coursing through my veins, I’m only human, and I’d have to be crazy to ignore the way his pelvis rubs against mine with every pulsing beat of the music. I’d have to be crazy to ignore that hot, tingling sensation that’s edging its way over my crotch and into the pit of my stomach.

I’m hazy and drunk – doped up on alcohol and sweat and music and a desperation for something that resembles the way Marco’s body might feel against my own. Maybe that’s why I take one last look over at Marco – still staring at Samuel and me as we dance – before turning my attention back to my partner, grabbing him by his nape, and forcing our mouths together.

I never said I was strong.

Our mouths are open when they meet, wet and hot – all tongues and teeth and taste – no question, no hesitation, bodies simply ready and willing. The music begins to shift over to a steady hip hop beat of [“Trouble”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7saEzzA-cR4). It’s a song that makes me want to thrust and fuck my tongue further into Samuel’s mouth, it’s a song that makes me forget a little bit about where I am and why I’m doing what I’m doing. Samuel’s hands have begun to drift, fingers sliding away from the sharpness of my hips, moving downward to grip at the curve of my ass, and I’m pliant in his hands. I feel fucking desperate as I force my tongue against his, clench my eyes shut, and pretend that I’m not doing this because I’m sad. Pretend I’m not doing this because it’s a good distraction.

I want to just pretend I’m not rebounding from a relationship with Marco that I never fucking had in the first place.

_It’s gunna get you in trouble…_

Samuel tugs his mouth away from mine with a hot breath of air between the two of us, and I have to fight to not simply dig my nails into his nape and drag him back down into the kiss. He leans down to my ear, breathing heavy, body still rhythmic as it persists and grinds against my own.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks, voice heavy and smooth in my ear like silk. He always was fucking suave.

I don’t mean to, but as Samuel nibbles on my earlobe, I can’t help but turn my head to glance at Marco once more. He’s still there, standing with our friends, his eyes still focused on the crowd. His gaze rests on me. I catch his stare, but he breaks it almost as soon as I meet his eyes, turning his head to say something to Reiner.

“For old time’s sake?” Samuel whispers into my ear again, with a quick punctuated thrust of his denim-clad erection against my own.

Reiner looks out into the crowd, looks at me, and turns his head quickly to answer whatever Marco had asked him. I stare at Marco again, just a moment longer, silently willing him to look at me once more. Please, Marco. Catch my eyes just one more time. It’s all I’ll need.

But he doesn’t.

And so I turn back to Samuel, our cheeks pressed together, and breathe into his ear.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

**::**

Samuel and I walk back to my dorm in silence. He keeps an arm around me and keeps me close, hips bumping together as we walk, and I’m not exactly complaining about it. Anything that can keep me from thinking about the person I’m leaving behind at that party is a good thing in my book.

Anything at all to keep me from lamenting a relationship I never even had.

Closing in on the door to my suite has Samuel pressed up close behind me as I unlock it. Inside, he turns me around, kicks the door shut and plants his lips on my own. He and I fumble through the darkness, his hands on my hips, ushering me in any direction that might land the two of us near a bed. As steadily as I can, I break my lips away from his and guide him towards my bedroom.

Stumbling past the threshold, he leans down again to catch my lips for a moment, before he detaches and nibbles and bites along the lines of my neck. In the darkness, Samuel fumbles around, mouth still nipping at my neck, as he tries to find the lights. As his fingers locate the switch, I lift my own arm, grabbing ahold of his and forcing it down under the guise of guiding it to my waist.

The truth is that I simply don’t want the lights on. I want to bask in the darkness, hide myself away against the firmness of his body, the sting of his lips, the sear and burn of his tongue against my flesh. Reclaiming his lips, I kick the door shut, and he doesn’t waste a moment before turning me around shoving me back against it the wood harshly. He ruts his hands up under my shirt, raking and scraping his nails along the muscle and skin of my body.

“Ahh,” I hiss out on end of a groan. It’s a dull sting, punctuated only by my body’s twitches under his hands. And it’s just what I need. In the darkness, everything is still a bit fuzzy, everything still has that haze of the alcohol and fog that had been present in the basement, and this is how I want it, how I need it right now. I want only the gentle lights of the outside slipping in through the blinds. I want only his most primitive and primal shape to be illuminated.

I want him, but only like this.

“S-Sam…” I whimper as he inches my shirt up, further and further, dropping his head down to bite at my chest and nipples as he shucks the fabric off of me. All I can do is follow his motions, let things happen as I need them to happen. I blink hard, clenching my eyes shut as he nips at my skin, grapples at my hips, pants and moans breathy little murmurs against the skin of my stomach.

When I open my eyes again, Samuel is on his knees in front of me, his own shirt gone, and in the darkness I can almost imagine freckles spackled across his flesh. I rake my fingers through his hair while he stares up at me, hands on my hips, pinkies daring to dip below the waistband of my jeans. He looks at me, eyes big and lusty even in the darkness, as if silently pleading for my permission.

I can’t speak; my chest feels tight, stomach twisted up in knots… twisted up in ways I can’t even understand. Do I hurt? Do I yearn? Am I lusty and lost in a fog of alcohol and arousal, or is that twisting in my gut because of a certain boy I left behind at the party tonight? I don’t want to think, but I can’t stop myself.

I can’t even speak. And so, as Samuel stares up at me, asking for permission, I nod silently at him instead, dragging my fingers through his hair as he nuzzles into my touch. He fumbles quickly at the button and zipper of my jeans, opening them and releasing my already hard dick from my underwear.

“God, Jean…” he mumbles reverently, grasping my cock and stroking it lightly before swallowing it down without a moment’s hesitation.

The first touch of his mouth is fucking heaven. And for a moment, between the clouds in my brain and the heat and slick of his mouth as it drags along my dick, I forget. I forget myself, I forget the party, I forget drinking and laughing with Marco, I forget the pain in my chest.

I thunk my head back against the door of my bedroom, pressing my back firm against the wood to keep myself standing. Eyes closed, the world spins a bit as euphoria trickles up along my body. His mouth moves steady along the length of my dick, and even beneath the fog of intoxication, I feel the pleasure seep through me.

As he sucks me off, I feel Samuel begin to drag my jeans and underwear down further until my ass is bare and exposed. His hands grasp at my cheeks, guiding my cock further into his mouth, deep into his throat, as he spreads me a bit, fingers teasing ever so playfully against my entrance.

I shudder at his touch.

And I forget.

I want to fuck into his mouth, I want to drag my fingers through his hair, I want to yank him up and kiss his mouth, I want to slide my tongue against his as I rub our cocks together. I want to make him shake and quiver, I want him to moan my name, hiss my name, cry my name out when I make him come.

I want to kiss.

I want to stare into dark, brown eyes.

I want to taste each and every freckle on his skin.

My eyes still closed, I let my fingers slip into his hair, guiding him gently along my cock as he sucks, his fingers still gently pressing at my hole.

“Ahhh, god… M-Marco…” I groan out.

And that… _that_ snaps me right back to reality.

I fling my eyes open quickly, looking down at the head of hair my fingers are tangled in, at the mouth that’s dragging languidly up and down along my cock. Even in the darkness, I know there are no freckles on my companion’s skin.

Samuel doesn’t seem to have noticed my slip up, but even as he continues his ministrations, I can’t help but grip his hair a bit, slowing him down and stopping him until he reluctantly relinquishes my cock from those plush, red lips.

He stares up at me, his brow furrowed as he squeezes at my ass again.

“I…” I mumble softly. “I’m…”

I can’t find the words.

Samuel’s fingers grip the flesh of my ass again and spread my cheeks a little as he moves to take my cock back into his mouth. But I stop him. I usher his arms away from me, and push his shoulders a bit.

I shake my head.

His mouth feels good, those fingers teasing ever so gently at me feel goddamn decadent. So fucking good that it could take me over.

So why do I feel like I’m cheating? Why do I feel like I’m betraying that beautiful boy at the party who was never mine to begin with?

I lick my lips, avoid Samuel’s confused gaze, and shake my head again.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t do this…”

Samuel lets out a small huff and stares up at me.

“Huh? You serious?” He asks, a bit breathy and incredulous.

My head feels like it’s going to spin off, and my chest feels tight. All I can do is nod solemnly at him in response.

Samuel sighs gently, drops his arms down, hands planted against his thighs, and leans back on his heels. His shoulders slump a bit before he lifts an arm to drag his fingers through his hair. 

“Okay.” He says matter-of-factly, pushing himself up off his knees to stand. He grabs his discarded shirt from up off the floor and pulls it on as I hesitantly fix my underwear and drag my jeans back up to cover myself. I don’t move up off the door though, and I don’t look up at him, the two of us simply standing there in the silence.

Samuel rakes his fingers through his hair again, shuffling it and ruffling it, attempting to organize it from where I had tugged and mussed it not one minute earlier. He stares at me as I feel a fucking storm brewing in my chest. My eyes feel hot and prickly and maybe it’s just the alcohol, but I hardly feel able to control or contain myself.

I push myself off of the door, getting out of his way, and scooping my shirt up off the floor. I slide it on slowly and move to sit on the edge of my bed, Samuel watching my every move. He huffs again slightly and walks towards me. He doesn’t sound angry or annoyed with me, which is surprising, given the situation, but… small blessings, I suppose.

“I guess…. call me sometime if you change your mind…” He mumbles in the darkness, before leaning down and kissing my cheek softly.

All I can do is nod.

He moves away from me and opens the door of my bedroom.

“It uh, it was good seeing you, Jean…” is all he says before striding past the threshold and through the common area. A couple seconds later, I hear the main door of the suite open – a little sliver of light from the hallway seeping in and disappearing as he closes it shut behind him.

I scoot backwards slowly on my bed, edging myself closer towards the wall. I’m a goddamn mess. Drunk and flushed, pants half undone, shirt wrinkled, and tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I want to hold it in, I do, but in the haze of the alcohol and shame, I just can’t.

It spills out of me in an instant: as I curl my legs up against my body, I feel it hit. I feel the tears slip from my eyes, wetting my cheeks, stinging my skin, and once again I feel like I am underwater. I feel helpless and lost and so goddamn angry at myself, because I can never just be happy with what I have. I always have to be selfish and petty, not ever content to be satisfied with being… _friends_. And even though I know it isn’t his fault or his problem, I can’t help but curse Marco.

Here, curled up in the darkness like a goddamn shipwreck swallowed down by disheveled covers, alcohol, and tears, I want to curse him.

Because I’m slowly learning, I don’t think I can ever do right by him.

I can’t be the friend that he deserves, because I can’t see past my own feelings. I can’t give him the quality of friendship that he so readily gives to me because I’m too selfish to simply revel in his company. And I can’t let him go, can’t relinquish him from my desperate fingers, because I’m too selfish to do what’s best.

Why Marco stays down here in the muck and silt and slime with me, why he doesn’t fight and squirm desperately to get away, I suppose I’ll never know.

But I don’t deserve it. 

Slowly, I lower myself down to lie on my mattress. I’m still curled up, the bed covers wrapped around my legs haphazardly. I might still be crying, but honestly, in this horrid, messy stupor of mine, I can’t even be sure.

Anything he gives me, I don’t deserve.

But I already knew that… didn’t I?

I’ve told myself that for ages now.

And as I lie here, I suddenly feel very tired. Head against my pillow, I feel my bed begin to spin beneath me. I’m a bit too drunk, and the way it feels like the bed is falling out from underneath my body isn’t helping matters. I know I’m going to probably have a wicked headache tomorrow, but I can’t be that bothered to care. I sigh softly, curling my legs a little bit closer into my body. I blink; my crusty, tired eyes lingering shut for a bit longer each time, until eventually, the world fades.

**::**

I don’t know how long I sleep, but it can’t be long. The first thing I notice, before my eyes are even open, is that I’m thirsty… _extremely_ thirsty… The second thing I notice is that my body is still buzzing a bit: fuzzy and hazy still from the remnants of alcohol still filtering their way through my system.

Forcing my tired, itchy eyes to open, the third thing I notice is that I’m not alone.

Even in the darkness, I can see him. Sitting on the floor at my bedside, his arms folded up and cradling his head on my mattress, sleeps Marco.

For a moment, all I can do is stare. His face – ever so gently lit by the street lights outside – is calm and placid: lost in sleep. His breath comes out in even, quiet huffs. Moving as gently as I can, I try to sit up a bit to look at him, to try and convince myself that this is real. Marco’s legs are curled up beneath him on the floor, and the only support for his body seems to be the edge of my mattress. He can’t be comfortable…

Maybe it’s the gentle buzzing coursing through my body, the last little hints of alcohol impeding my judgments, but as I spot that mess of hair, those beautiful spackled cheeks, I can’t help but reach out and touch my fingers against his head. I just need to feel that he’s there… Ever so gently, I let my digits slip into his locks, feeling their softness. They’re silky, maybe a little greasy: a sign he hasn’t showered since the party, but I don’t care.

With my fingers laced amongst his gentle brown hair, memories come crashing back to me. Leaving the party, bringing Samuel back here, my fingers gripping Samuel’s hair as his mouth moved languidly along my dick… Thinking of Marco as the pleasure began to seep across my body.

It’s only at that last thought that I pull my hand away from Marco’s hair.

The loss of contact seems to be enough to stir my companion though, and quickly, his eyes flutter open and he darts his head up with a small groan. The way he moves, it’s almost as if he wants to appear as if he hadn’t been asleep. I want to smile at that. But all I can do is lie there on my side, my head lifted up off the pillow, my hand pulled back close to my body with care as Marco’s eyes adjust and notice that I’m awake. One more groan, rubbing his hand across his eyes, he speaks.

“Jean…” He mumbles on a yawn, “You’re up… Good. Got you some- ”, yawn, “some water.” He says quickly, picking up a large cup off the floor, filled almost to the brim with water.

Marco holds it out to me and I nod, taking it from him gingerly and sitting up a bit more so I can drink it.

I gulp down what I can. My body is still thrumming and I’m sure I’m still a little drunk. Given how dark out it still is, I couldn’t have been asleep that long, certainly not long enough to fully sober up. But the water feels good – cool and refreshing to my parched mouth, soothing to my body, relaxing for my pounding head.

“Thank you…” I mumble softly, my brain still not fully accepting that he has even thought of me enough to get me water…

“Got you some aspirin too…” Marco says quickly, standing up – albeit a bit clumsily, his limbs still thick with sleep – to grab something off my desk.

Clenching the cup between my fingers, I do my best to calm myself, trying like hell to calm my heart which threatens to beat harder and harder in my chest. He returns to my side and hands me a couple of pills.

“You don’t have to take them… if you don’t feel good still, but they might help for tomorrow.”

Looking down at the pills in my hand, thoughts rush through my head. There are a lot of questions I want to ask.

‘Why are you here?’ is number one on the list. A few others include ‘where is everyone else?’, ‘what about the party?’, and ‘how did you get in?’. The last one is easy enough though… Samuel probably left the door to the suite unlocked when he left.

“What time is it?” Is what I ask him instead.

Marco sinks back down to the floor beside my bed and grabs his phone from his pocket once he’s settled. He rubs his face as it lights up, before mumbling softly to me in the darkness.

“About 4:15. You should get some more sleep.” He murmurs, shoving his phone back in his pocket and settling his arms on my mattress again.

I can only hum in response, glancing down at the pills in the palm of my hand. I pop them quickly and down the rest of the water. Once the glass is empty, Marco takes it from me, stands and places it on my desk.

I expect him to return to his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands by the desk, looking back at me with a twinge of hesitancy on his face. I sit up fully now, but I can’t keep my eyes on him. I crane my head down, staring at my fingers which have begun to fiddle with my covers on my lap (the covers that I only just now notice aren’t tangled and disheveled like they were earlier, but rather are neat and folded gently over me).

“Why are you here?” I whisper, unable to fully raise my voice.

Marco doesn’t respond for a second, and I wonder if he’s even heard me. But after another beat, he sighs, and comes to sit on the floor by my bed again. He shrugs.

“I saw that uh, Samuel guy… come back to the party without you…” He looks away from me, rubs at his mouth. “I got worried. So Reiner, Bert, and I headed back here to check on you…”

“Oh…”

“I just… wanted to make sure you were okay.”

There’s a moment when I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. So I simply close it and keep my eyes transfixed on the blankets I have twiddled between my fingers.

I don’t even have an appropriate reaction for this situation. How does one respond to this? How does one handle bringing home a guy as a rebound for a relationship you never had? How does one handle feeling like a cheat, like a liar? How am I supposed to handle moaning my best friend’s name and waking up to find him sitting at my bedside to make sure that I was safe?

_Dear Dr. Phil…_

A hand resting gently on my forearm takes me out of my thoughts. I turn my attention to Marco; his chin rests sleepily atop his right hand, and the left one, which grips my forearm, squeezes and relaxes gently.

“You _are_ okay, aren’t you?” He asks quietly in the dark.

I don’t mean to catch his eyes, but I do anyway. They’re staring up at me with the same softness Marco always seems to save for me and I feel myself crumbling a bit. I nod slowly.

“Yeah. I’m… I’m okay, I guess.”

It isn’t the truth… not the full truth, at least.

Being here in the darkness with Marco hurts, what happened earlier with Samuel hurts, because I’m gripped with a fear that I will never be able to simply be happy with being Marco’s friend.

And yet… what I said isn’t entirely untrue. Part of me _is_ okay. I know that I’m the living, breathing definition of a contradiction. I know that being here with Marco tugs at my heart, and yet, at the same time, with Marco here, in the quiet, I feel a little better, better than I did earlier… Marco could have done a lot of things tonight. He could have simply had Reiner and Bertholdt check on me, he could have had them simply text and let him know I was okay, he could be curled up in his own bed right now, getting some much-needed sleep and recovering from the booze he’d drank (even if it wasn’t nearly as much as I stupidly decided to imbibe). Hell, he could have not cared at all, and simply gone to his dorm and not even bothered with me.

I wouldn’t have blamed him if that’s what he’d done.

But he didn’t.

Marco watched me ditch him along with the rest of our friends to drag some guy back to my room. And when that guy came back to the party without me in tow, Marco got worried. He got worried and went out of his way to check on me, to stay with me, to make sure there was water and aspirin ready, to make sure that if something happened to me, _he_ would be there to help.

It’s remarkable, it’s fucking _noble_ , and it’s more than I have ever deserved in my puny little existence.

I want to hug him tight and sob and apologize and tell him I’m sorry I took Samuel to my room, I’m so sorry I kissed him, when it should have been Marco I was kissing. It always should have been Marco. But I can’t say that, because Marco isn’t my goddamn boyfriend. I didn’t cheat on him. I’m not rebounding from him. And Marco doesn’t look like he wants or even needs an apology of any sort. And frankly, that’s what I should have expected.

Ever so softly, I feel Marco’s fingers give my forearm another gentle squeeze before rubbing my skin lightly. I want so badly to take his hand, lace my fingers in between his, feel the calluses that line his flesh like they line mine. Marco doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting his fingertips drag across my skin: back and forth, back and forth, steady, even, metronomic like the way he rows, like the way he does everything. My stomach feels twisted, body still thrumming and buzzing a bit with residual alcohol coursing through my veins, but I decide to simply let myself enjoy this. Just for a moment, I’ll try not to think too much about any of this.

I know that ‘not thinking too much about this’ hasn’t really worked out for me so far, but I never said I was a fast learner… I never said I knew how to stay away from things I shouldn’t touch. Even though god knows, I tried.

After another couple of beats, Marco’s slow, rhythmic movements along my forearm stop and he sighs. He pulls his arm back and stretches his back a bit with a slight groan and crick of his neck. I watch his motions carefully; he can’t have been comfortable sitting on the floor like that for as long as he did, and his discomfort is evident as he groans once more. I watch, a bit dismayed, as he moves to stand. Marco sighs softly and drags a hand through his hair.

“Well… If you’re okay, I should probably turn in.” He says into the darkness.

“Oh.”

I’m sure there was more I wanted to say, but the one syllable is all I seem to be able to get out.

I watch as Marco pats his pockets, making sure he’s got his keys, his wallet, and his phone. He stretches once more and glances around the room.

“Do you… need anything else? More water maybe? Anything?”

I don’t want him to go…

“I’m… I think I’m okay…” I mumble, pointedly staring down at my hands again.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I nod silently.

_Don’t go, Marco… I don’t want you to go._

“Will you text me?” He asks softly, in that same voice he always does.

“Yes.” I whisper back to him, trying like hell to hide the slight tremble in my voice.

Marco shoots me a nod and turns towards the door.

This is stupid… This is so stupid. But I can’t stop myself.

“Marco?” 

The way I say his name is weak… fragile. I’m too afraid to ask, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

_Don’t do this, Jean. Do not do this._

Marco turns to look at me.

“Please don’t go…” I whisper.

I expect him to question me. I expect him to ask why. Because he _should_ ask why. Because I should have to explain myself to him; I shouldn’t be able to just ask this of him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he smiles, like he always does.

“Okay.” He says to me softly, making his way to my bedside once more.

As I watch him start to lower himself down to the floor once more, I can’t stop the twisting, painful knots that are building up in my stomach.

_Don’t fucking ask, Jean. Don’t even think it… He’s staying, why can’t that be enough?_

Against all better judgment, and in a motion that I will blame on the alcohol still rushing through me, I reach out for him. I take hold of his arm before he can lower down to the floor, and wordlessly I shake my head, hoping that the motion alone will be enough and that I won’t have to verbally explain what I’m suggesting.

Marco doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither do I, simply because I’m not sure that I could speak even if I wanted to. Words have been building up in the back of my throat, my tongue the dam that blocks them off, and I simply won’t let them out. But he seems to understand, and to my surprise, Marco… smiles.

Soft, tender, understanding…

I lie back in my bed slowly, scooching over to plaster myself against the wall, creating an open space amongst the covers. Marco stands up, slips off his jacket and toes off his shoes, and lowers himself steadily onto the bed. He’s careful not to touch me, and frankly, I’m just as cautious. Because I haven’t exactly thought this through. Asking him to stay was a whim, and offering an empty space in my bed was capricious at best… Even I’m not sure what I’m thinking.

Marco eases himself onto the mattress slowly, tucking his jean-clad legs up underneath the blankets. It’s only then that I note that I’m still wearing my jeans from the party, and I’m almost thankful. Denim isn’t exactly conducive for sleeping, but the fabric is the boundary that I so desperately need, the boundary I need to keep myself in check.

Marco settles down quickly, balling up his jacket a bit and tucking it up under his head to serve as his pillow. I would offer him mine, but there’s no way I can do that and have it end well. He tugs the covers up to his shoulders, dragging them up along my body as he does so and sighs softly. He seems to relax against the comfort of my bed – it’s gotta be better than sitting half-slumped on the floor – but even as his body calms, he maintains the space between us.

But honestly, despite the six inches between us, despite the thick fabric of our jeans that serves as walls between our bodies, I know that he is warm. I know that if I reached out and touched him, his skin would be flush, heated, and alive against my fingers. I won’t touch him though.

Why did I do this? Why did I ask him to stay? Why did I offer up an empty space in my bed?

And why did he agree?

I don’t have any answers, and I’m… I’m afraid. There’s a feeling in my gut that twists and rends; it’s more overwhelming than the one that coiled up inside me earlier when I watched Samuel suck my cock and imagined it was Marco. I don’t know what to do with this.

But Marco doesn’t seem too nonplussed, doesn’t seem at all concerned about the current situation. Instead, he looks serene and content as he nuzzles his head down a bit against his makeshift pillow and closes his eyes softly. I watch as he snugs his shoulders a bit, allowing the blankets to shroud him a little more, and he sighs.

“Thank you,” Marco murmurs sleepily, “That floor is _so_ not comfy.”

Marco keeps his eyes shut and draws his arms close to his body. He curls one hand up under his face delicately, nuzzling his cheek against it as he breathes steadily. And I realize that this may not be the first time I’ve seen him sleep, but it’s the first time I’ve watched his movements, his pre-sleep motions, the little things he does to get comfortable before he drifts away. And I don’t know what to do.

I watch him silently for another few moments, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, unable to make my eyes close, unable to move my gaze from him. I feel crazed right now – my whole form still hums and thrums with a bit of lingering inebriation, my chest is fucking tight, and my insides feel like they might tear their way out of me any moment… and yet, Marco rests before me as if nothing were amiss. He’s calm, relaxed, breathing easily, drifting gently into sleep as if nothing that happened tonight was truly anything to fret about.

I envy him.

I don’t want to speak, really. I honestly just want to lie here in silence, I want to watch him, I want to pretend like everything is normal, that everything is okay. But I’m already a liar; I’m a cheat, and two-faced, and so goddamn selfish, and I don’t deserve anything that he’s done for me… So I at least owe him _something_.

“Thank you for… for tonight.” I mumble.

Marco’s breath is so easy, his eyes still closed, that I’m unsure if he’s even still awake, if he even heard my words. There’s a quiet that rests between us in my darkened bedroom, until eventually, Marco shuffles a little and lets out another soft sigh.

“Mm, it’s no problem.”

His voice is thick and tired, falling quickly down into the depths of sleep, and I wonder if he’s even aware that he is speaking to me. But I can’t stop.

“I’m… I’m sorry about just… ditching you and the others…:

“Don’t worry about it, Jean.” He murmurs again, a brief yawn interrupting his words.

“Really, Marco… I just – I…”

But Marco doesn’t let me finish. In one quick motion, he reaches out to rest his hand atop my bicep, stopping my words mid-sentence. His eyes open softly and he smiles before giving my arm a tender, reassuring squeeze.

“Hey, I said don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to, and I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

I want to reply to him, I really do, but I can’t find the words. And so I watch as he smiles once more, pats my arm gently and pulls his hand away, tucking it back underneath his face. Marco’s eyes slip closed once more.

“Get some rest, Jean.”

Within the next few minutes, Marco’s face goes slack, his breathing deep and calm, huffing out in even puffs. For a while, I’m too afraid to let myself relax, but the longer I stare at him, the heavier my body becomes. Slowly, but surely, I feel my eyelids grow heavy, my muscles un-tensing, filling languidly with the weight of sleep.

**::**

When I wake up, I notice almost immediately that my bed is empty, as is my room. I also note that rather than being plastered up against the wall, like I was when I went to sleep, my body is more or less in the center of my bed, sprawled out as I usually do when I’m alone. I push myself up onto my elbows, glancing around my room idly. In my early, sleep-riddled moments, my brain only processes two thoughts. Either Marco snuck out at some point during the night… or he never came at all.

I _was_ fairly drunk last night… Maybe I imagined or dreamed all that stuff with Marco. I wouldn’t even be all that surprised. Alcohol has given me messed up and vivid dreams in the past.

I flop back down to the mattress, and stare up at the ceiling, trying my best to think a little more about the night before. Some spots are a bit fuzzy, little bits and pieces fading in and out of my memory. I remember going to the party, I definitely remember dragging Samuel back here… And I could swear I remember waking up to see Marco asleep at my bedside… him giving me water to drink… me asking him to stay. And yet, here we are, or rather, here _I_ am.

I suppose him not coming at all is a better situation than him leaving.

Absently, I hear rustling from out in the common area, the flush of the toilet, tell-tale sounds of my suitemates waking and moving through their morning rituals. I don’t much feel like confronting them about last night, yet, dealing with any questions, concerns, or lectures (probably from Reiner) that they might have for me. Plus I don’t _need_ to get up yet.

Flopping onto my side, I feel around for my phone. My first few fumbles tell me it’s not on the bed; I lift up, quickly investigating the area around my bed and I note quickly that for some reason it’s sitting on the floor. I strain down to grab it and open up the screen. The battery is pretty low; I must have forgotten to plug it in last night. I also note that I have a new message. I open it up hesitantly.

 _2:08 AM_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_Dude, where are you? You okay? That guy you were with just came back to the party… Don’t see you anywhere._

I drag my hand across my face and sigh, deciding I better send him a reply… My fingers start typing quickly, attempting to tell Marco that yeah, I was okay and that I was sorry for making him worry, but midway through the text, I note my bedroom door opening slowly. I groan.

“Ugh, it’s called _knocking_ , Con-” I start, but my words stop short when I note a messy-haired Marco slide into my room.

“Hey, you’re up!” He says casually, wiping what appear to be wet hands on his shirt. The same shirt he wore… last night.

“Hey…” I mumble, unable to stop the way my eyebrow quirks in confusion.

Did he actually stay last night? Was that not just some crazed fantasy my alcohol-clouded mind concocted?

“You feeling okay? I know you weren’t feeling all that hot last night but, I mean. You look better.”

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good!” Marco stretches out quickly and plops down on my mattress, reaching down and grabbing his shoes. How had I not noticed those sitting by my bed?

I sit up fully as he begins to slip his shoes on, not seeming at all bothered by the fact that he spent the entire night with me.

“So, okay, I reek and _really_ need a shower…” Marco starts, pulling his second shoe on quickly, “But I’m also fuckin’ starving. So I think I’m gunna go to my room, get cleaned up, but do you wanna meet in like… 30-ish minutes for breakfast?”

He’s so… he’s so calm and fucking _normal_ . How is he so blasé about this? How is not like me, sitting here, confused and speechless about what happened? How is he just sitting there, putting his shoes and jacket on and talking about fucking _breakfast_??

But if he’s acting normal, then I need to as well…

“Uh,” I mumble, clearing my throat quickly, “Sure. Yeah, that’s fine…”

Marco smiles at my words and gives me a quick pat on the arm before standing up briskly.

“Great, see you in a bit.”

And with that, he’s gone, striding out my bedroom door and through the common area. Just vaguely, I think I hear him mumble a quick ‘goodbye’ to someone else, which tells me that unfortunately, at least one of my suitemates is also up and moving.

I sigh, albeit a bit dramatically, and swing my legs out from under the covers, standing up steadily with a stretch. Not one minute goes by before Reiner is suddenly standing in my doorway, bowl of cereal in his hand. He lifts a spoonful to his mouth and chews slowly and deliberately. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s got that look on his face, that look of _“Mama Braun’s about to rub something in your face”._ I groan, holding up my hand to stop his words before he says them.

“Please, Reiner.”

“I didn’t say anything…” He mumbles, smirking as he swallows his bite of cereal. I roll my eyes and turn away from him, opening up one of my drawers to grab a towel out. I probably should get a shower as well. At the very least to wash away my shame.

“Hrmph…” I hear him chuckle and I can’t help but sigh.

“ _What_?” I snap.

“Nothin’…” Reiner takes another bite, as I flutter through my room, picking out clothes and preparing for a shower. I hear him scoff once more, “You’re an idiot though.” Is all he says before retreating from my doorway towards the kitchenette. I sigh and shake my head, not even bothering to try and call out a comeback to him, instead hurrying out of my room to the bathroom.

**::**

Breakfast with Marco – much like this morning’s early interaction – is… painfully normal. I can’t decide if it’s unnerving or if I’m just really glad he isn’t making a big fuss about last night. He talks about what we should do for the rest of the weekend, he talks about upcoming finals, he talks about our last race that’s steadily creeping up on us. The best I can do is respond to him, converse with him like I always would, because even if I know that last night was probably the furthest thing from ‘normal’, _he_ seems to think it was fine. So, sure, Marco… things can be normal for a bit, I won’t complain.

I watch as he pokes at his food; I laugh when he comments that the cafeteria’s powdered eggs might come alive and swallow the two of us before proceeding to conquer the rest of the world. And I smile at him, because despite me being a raging, inconsiderate prick to him at the party last night, somehow he can still grin and laugh with me as if I’ve never once wronged him.

What an astounding individual he is. There are times when I debate if he’s even real, or if he’s simply a figment of my imagination that I’ve created to torture myself. But I mean… if he does happen to be a complete fabrication, it’s pretty impressive he’s been managing to row in a boat for the entire semester.

Invisi-rower. Super.

I shake myself from my thoughts as Marco begins to shuffle his plates together, asking me if I’m ready to head out.

“Yeah, comin’.” I mutter, gathering up my things.

As the two of us walk out of the cafeteria, we slowly meander our way back to the dorms. I can’t help but notice that Marco walks rather close to me, his arm brushing against mine every once in a while as we make idle, pointless conversation. As we approach the fork between our two dorms, I hear Marco yawn loudly, and a wave of guilt washes over me.

“Dude,” he mumbles, laying a hand on my shoulder, “I think I need a freakin’ nap or something, I’m exhausted.”

I swallow thickly, already trying to figure out ways I could apologize for last night. But I don’t really know how to start, so I not-so-gracefully stutter out some words instead.

“I um. Yeah. I’m… I’m sorry, you know…”

Marco holds his hand up to stop me and smiles.

“Stop. Don’t be sorry. Like I said, if I didn’t want to check on you, I wouldn’t have. And if I didn’t want to stay, I wouldn’t have… I’m actually… Kinda glad you asked me to.”

I jerk my eyes up to his at that comment and furrow my brow.

“Really?” I ask him softly.

“Yeah. Couldn’t have ya choking on your tongue and dying on me or anything.”

“I wasn’t… _that_ drun-”

Marco’s laugh interrupts me before I can finish.

“I know, calm down. Just joking.”

It isn’t that funny, mostly because I still feel really bad… overall just guilty about everything that happened last night. And yet, I still manage to smile at his words. I glance down at the ground and shrug silently at him.

The next thing I feel is a soft hand resting against my neck; it’s hard not to startle at the sudden contact, but Marco’s touch has always been so taciturn and comforting that I don’t really mind its presence. Without hesitation, he slides his hand to my jaw and steadily lifts my eyes to his. This feels intimate, and yet, I know it isn’t. This far into our friendship, I’ve come to at least… understand – not so much accept – that Marco is just the kind of guy who acts this way towards his friends. He’s touchy with me, he’s touchy with Reiner and Bertholdt, hell, I’m sure he’s touchy with everyone. This isn’t abnormal for him, and I need to get it through my head.

He doesn’t say anything once he catches my gaze. Instead, he merely pats my cheek lightly and smiles, dropping his hand in the next moment.  He gestures towards me briefly before he speaks.

“You look in need of a nap too, if I do say so myself.”

I force out a chuckle and roll my eyes.

“That your polite way of telling me I look like shit?”

“Pshh, no. If you look like shit, I’ll just tell you. That being said: you look like shit, go rest.”

I can’t help the laugh that creeps out of my chest at that. Ever so gently, I give his shoulder a playful shove, ushering him in the direction of his dorm.

“Go get your damn beauty sleep, princess.” I tell him, watching as he trots towards his building with a wave to me.

As Marco is fobbing into the building, I think to call out to him.

“Marco?” I say. He pauses and turns around, halfway in the building. “Text me later?” I ask him hesitantly, and his face beams, a big smile plastering itself on his face as he nods.

“Duh!” He shouts back with a brief wink before receding into his dorm.

I shake my head, a small, pathetic chuckle eking past my lips before my smile fades slowly. I breathe out steadily and head towards my own building. As I enter my room, halfheartedly acknowledging my suitemates in the common area, I feel my pocket buzz. I yank out my phone and head towards my bedroom. On my screen is a new text.

 _10:02 am_  
**From: Marco Bodt  
** _You don’t look like shit  ;) Text ya in a while! We gunna hang later?_

I smile softly to myself and plop down on my bed. I probably shouldn’t nap, but I do feel pretty tired. Stretching out, I type out a quick reply.

 _10:06 am_  
**To: Marco Bodt**  
_Sounds good. I got an idea for something we can do tonight, anyway._

 _10:08 am_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_Oh yeah?_

 _10:09 am_  
**To: Marco Bodt**  
_Yeah, tell ya later though._

 _10:10 am_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_Super duper see-krit?_

 _10:12 am_  
**To: Marco Bodt**  
_Shut up and go to sleep._

 _10:13 am_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_< 3_

I don’t respond to his last text, mostly because I can’t think of any logical response to a text like that. Instead, I set a quick alarm and close my phone’s screen. I plug my phone up, pretending as best I can that Marco did not just send a heart to me, and settle down atop my mattress.

Lying here, staring at the ceiling, I realize quickly how tired I really am, and before I know it, I’ve drifted off.

**::**

I wake up with a start at the sound of a firm knock on my door. Glancing around in a haze, I notice almost immediately that it’s dark in my room – way too dark to only be the afternoon. Fucking jesus, how long did I sleep? I fumble for my phone and blearily open up the screen. It’s almost fucking 7:00 pm; did I seriously sleep all day? I have a few missed texts, a couple from Connie and Sasha, but most of them are from Marco asking if I’m up and if I’m ready to hang out.

I see that there’s a slight lull in his texts; about an hour between his last text asking if I’m up and the one text that’s sitting unread at the bottom of the list. I don’t know why I hesitate to open it; maybe it’s because of the time break between his messages, maybe it’s just some imaginary feeling inside me, but I’m hesitant. The time stamp on it reads only about 10 minutes ago. Slowly but surely I select it and wait for it to open.

 _6:45 pm_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_Can I come over? I need to talk to you…_

There’s a moment when I can only stare at my phone, reading and re-reading the text, my gut suddenly twisting up inside me. What does he mean? Why does he need to talk to me and why the hell does it seem urgent? I can only assume the worst… It’s only the sound of another knock on my bedroom door – a bit louder than the first – that jars my attention away from my phone. I fumble up off my bed to my door and open it quickly. I’m expecting Reiner, or maybe Connie, to be standing there, ready to fucking pester me for sleeping the goddamn day away, but I’m met instead… with Marco.

“Hey…” I mumble in surprise, glancing past him to see where my suitemates might be. But I don’t see any of them.

The whole suite looks dark past where Marco stands; no lights on, the room shrouded in evening.

“Hi.” Marco replies, his voice curt and brisk, “May I?” He asks me, gesturing into my room.

“Yeah, sure, sure…” I mumble, quickly standing aside as he brushes past me into my bedroom.

Something feels… off… wrong. He isn’t usually this curt or brusque.

“Um… What’s-”, I start to ask him, but he doesn’t let me finish.

“We need to talk.”

My chest tightens at his words. His tone is so stern, so unlike Marco that it’s jarring, and all I can think is that this is going to be the moment when it ends, when this tenuous friendship the two of us have had comes crashing down. _This_ is the moment when he’s finally figured everything out. This is the moment when he’s going to scream at me, tell me I had no right to think about him like that, that he thought I was his friend. This is the moment when he tells me that he never wants to see me again. And I’m not ready for it to be over. I know what I’ve said in the past; I know that I’ve said I can’t be the friend he needs, but deep down I know I don’t want to let him go.

I swallow as smoothly as I can, trying like hell to shove down the putrid, acrid lump that has formed in my throat as Marco stares at me. The room is dim, lit only by the fading light as the sun retreats steadily past the horizon, but I don’t need much light to see the firm line of Marco’s mouth or the furrowed wrinkles on his brow.

“How long?” Marco asks me suddenly, breaking the silence I had let reign between us.

“What are you talkin-”

“How. Long.” He asks again, more sternly this time, his voice pointed and direct. I can pretend, I can play innocent, I suppose, but I know exactly what he’s asking me.

I drop my gaze from his, the fingers of my left hand absently scratching at my arm as I respond softly.

“I don’t… I don’t know… It-it just kinda… happened.”

Marco doesn’t say anything, and I dare a glance back up at him. He’s standing still, so very still, just staring at me, and I feel like his gaze might crush me if he looks any longer.

“I’m sorry…” My voice is nothing but a whisper at this point. I want so badly for him to understand; to understand that I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for it to be like this. But my words convey none of the messages I want to say. Instead, my apology is weak and timid, and I can feel myself cracking underneath the pressure of his gaze.

There are a couple moments of simple silence between us, the only sound our breath in my stagnant bedroom. The stillness is only broken when Marco suddenly takes a rapid few strides towards me; the abruptness of his movements catches me off guard and I find myself stepping back, away from his advances.

As I retreat a half-step, I don’t know what I’m afraid of: Marco wouldn’t hurt me, no matter how angry he might be, no matter how betrayed he might feel, he isn’t that kind of person. Even Daniel wasn’t that horrible. Maybe I’m afraid of him leaving, maybe I’m afraid of him telling me that I’m just… a problem. A disgusting problem like I was for Daniel.

My thoughts keep racing, but I don’t have time to process them because suddenly, Marco is in my space. He’s close, much too close, and his hands are suddenly grabbing at me.

Grabbing at my hips without reserve or care.

“M-Marco, what are y-“ 

But I don’t get to finish. In the midst of my breathy, questioning words, a firm pressure against my mouth silences me. There’s a moment of panic that rises up in me before it settles with the quick and brutal realization that Marco is kissing me. In my darkened bedroom, alone, with his hands on my hips, and fingers digging in, he’s _kissing_ me.

When he pulls away, I feel as if he’s taking the air from my lungs, wrenching it out straight past my lips. I can’t help the way I whimper. I feel his fingers squeeze and release my hips and my head suddenly feels very light.

“Mar-co…” I mumble but he simply leans back in with a soft _“Shh…”_ that he murmurs against my lips.

When he kisses me this time it’s softer, less determined and forced. This time it feels tender and purposeful and he seems to pause this time as our lips are pressed together, waiting patiently for me to move. I dare to move my lips, to purse against his, to open my mouth, to simply not think about this too much.

Just faintly, I notice him stepping forward, pushing his body a little closer to mine, using his weight to usher me backwards. All I can do is step with him because at this point, my brain has shut off all rationality, it’s shut off reason, and the only switch that has been flipped is the one that tells me to let Marco into me.

His lips purse and pucker against my own, opening up when mine do the same. A shuddering breath ekes from his nose at the first soft touch of our tongues and he edges me further and further back. I don’t mean to whimper against his mouth, but there’s a rhythm to his movements, a fine, powerful pristineness that reminds me of the way his body moves along the water.

I think of all the times I’ve longed to reach my hand forward and drag my fingers along his muscled back. I think of the times when I have stared at him, and hoped, and wondered, and tormented myself, and yet here we are. I think of all the times I’ve longed to feel the way his blood courses through his body.

And I feel light… airy and detached.

Marco moves me back until my legs bump against my bed. He doesn’t hesitate to lower the two of us down atop the mattress. He hovers his body over me, mouth still latched with mine as if I’m the last breath of air to a drowning man, tongue moving languidly in and out of my mouth. He kisses with fervor and tenacity and I don’t know that I would have expected any less.

Marco crawls his way between my legs, making a point to roll himself against me as he detaches his mouth from mine. I want to protest, but my lips can’t make the words. He lowers his lips to my neck, my ear lobe, breathing heavily, words mumbled into me, hot against my skin.

“God, why didn’t you tell me?” He hisses out, grinding down against me, moaning into my ear. Even though the fabric of our pants, I can feel him: hard, needy pressure. And it’s all so… hazy and cloudy and lusty and bogged down thick with ache.

My body buzzes and hums in the darkness, and I can do nothing but feel the way his tongue makes the skin of my neck tingle and numb.

He hasn’t stopped his hips, gyrating and grinding down against me until my arms have wrapped around him. I’m desperate, fingers tangling in his shirt, frantic to have him closer.

“M-Marco… I need…” I whimper as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of my neck, “I lov-”

The shrill and piercing sound my alarm pulls me away, eyes flinging open, fingers grasping at nothing as I realize quickly that I’m alone.

I jerk my head up, glancing around my room. It’s lit with afternoon light, sunny and bright, and the sharp sound of the T-Rex roar that is my alarm persists until I gain the cognizance to turn it off.

I don’t bother to look for Marco, because reality has already sunk in with bruising quickness. I sigh and fling my head back into my pillow. I can still feel my body tingling and buzzing from the sensation of him. But of course it wasn’t real. Of course it was nothing but a fever dream.

I sigh, lifting my covers and taking a quick glance under them. Looks like I get to change pants too. This fucking figures, doesn’t it? Almost 21 years old now and having a fucking wet dream about a friend. _Fan-fucking-tastic, Jean._ I groan again, dragging myself up out of bed and grabbing a fresh pair of pants and boxers.

Before retreating to the bathroom to clean up and change, I take a quick glance at my phone. It’s almost 1:00, and – no surprise – I’ve got a text from Marco.

 _12:47 pm_  
**From: Marco Bodt**  
_Wake up, sleeping beauty! When did you wanna meet up?_

 _1:01 pm_  
**To: Marco Bodt  
** _Whenever is fine_

I send my text quickly, moving to head towards the bathroom to clean up. Before I dart out, I pause, reaching to grab a towel from the closet. It’s probably best if I just shower… wash myself entirely of all this nonsense.

I hear my text alert go off again but I don’t bother to look at it, proceeding instead to the bathroom to shower.

My shower takes 10 minutes longer than it really should, mostly because there are several moments when literally all I can do is stare at my feet and the water pooling around my toes. I watch as it pools and ebbs, draining out steadily as the shower head spews more down at my feet, and I wonder why it feels like it’s up to my waist… I don’t really need to wonder though. I know why.

I constantly feel like I’m buried beneath swells while never actually sinking; drowning but never actually succumbing and it’s maddening… utterly unbearable, because at this point I don’t know if I would rather simply scramble to grasp at Marco’s hand reaching down to me, or sink down and away from him for good.

I sigh slowly, drag my hands along my face as I plunge it beneath the warm stream. I shake my head. I need to get over myself. You know, I would like to say that I want to let go, but I’m not ready. I can’t. I don’t want to lose him. He means too much to me; he’s so important to me in ways I cannot fully articulate.

I watch my feet; I watch the water circle the drain… always draining and yet never disappearing because of the constant stream from the shower above. But I can turn this off if I want. And I wish, I just wish that things with Marco were as simple as just switching off the faucet. But they aren’t. I can’t be the friend that I want to be… but I can’t let him go either. Because I’m selfish.

With a huff, I turn off the shower, moving unthinkingly through my routine. Dry off. Don clothes. Towel dry hair. I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, still dragging the towel across my head. As I pass the common area, I quickly note Bertholdt and Reiner sitting on the couch, a controller in each’s hands, and focused intently on the screen.

“Oh ddaaaaayum, son, fuckin’ smacked you DOWN.” Reiner gloats loudly, fingers still fumbling frantically at the Playstation controller in his grip.

“Keep smartin’ off and you’re gunna get your ass beat.” Bertholdt mumbles intensely in return, his eyes not once moving from the screen.

“Woah, wait, wait.” Reiner exclaims, “No, stop! GODDAMNIT!”

I hear Bert laugh gleefully as the announcer on the game declares **“WINNER”** loudly; clearly in Bert’s favor. I approach the couch, slinging my towel over my shoulder.

“Soul Caliber again, you two?”

“Hell yeah, man.” Bertholdt says, shooting me a nod as he reclines back on the couch a bit more.

“What are you getting ready for?” Reiner asks.

I shrug.

“Dunno. Was thinking about taking Marco to the hookah lounge. You two wanna come?”

Bert and Reiner share a quick glance, as the game’s voiceover firmly announces **“ROUND TWO”**. The two of them suddenly sit back at attention, their eyes focused once more on the television.

“Nah man,” Reiner tells me idly, his fingers beginning to splay wildly across the controller. “Date night tonight. Oh fuck, got you right the face, babe!”

“Oh. And this is how you prepare for your date, then?” I ask him with a laugh. I watch as Bertholdt’s hulking character slams its sword down against Reiner’s character, knocking him flat on the ground and taking a large portion of his health. Reiner groans.

“Ugh, not fair, Bertl. You _always_ pick Nightmare; he all fuckin’ brute strength.”

“If you were nimbler on your feet with Kilik, you could dodge my hits better, Rei.” Bert counters, delivering yet another crushing blow.

The round is over quickly, with Bertholdt winning again, Reiner releasing his controller with an annoyed groan. Reiner reclines back on the couch and finally gives me his full attention.

“But yeah, thanks for the invite, but we got a private party planned.” Reiner glances over at Bertholdt before turning his attention back to me, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his face. “Plus, we uh… wouldn’t want to _intrude_ on your little date either.”

“It’s not a fucking date.”

“Oh, okay, suuuuure.” The blonde jibes before shooting me an exaggerated wink.

All I can do is groan. Yeah, I fucking _wish_ it were a date. Some of us don’t have that luxury, Reiner. I decide to change the subject.

“Where’s Connie?”

Bertholdt laughs at my question, and shakes his head.

“Dude, you _know_ where Connie is.”

“Sasha’s again? Why do they never stay here?”

“Psh, I can think of a few reasons.” Reiner pipes up, “For one, she’s got a single, and, second, I’m willing to bet she’s a screamer.”

I pause for a moment and shrug.

“Eh, so is Bertholdt. So whatever.” I say to him, turning to head back to my bedroom.

I certainly don’t miss the choked grunt Bertholdt makes at my comment. That alone puts a little smile on my face.

Entering my room, I’m already feeling a little calmer. Despite my roommates’ somewhat crass approach to my situation, talking to them still manages to put me at ease. At the end of the day, I’m grateful for them. Because even amongst my moments of anxiety, they know how to make a situation feel a little lighter, a little less overbearing and daunting.

I open up my phone, tossing my towel across the back of my desk chair and flick to my messages, reading the two Marco sent me. One asking if I was up, and the second asking when I wanted to meet and hang out.

I shoot him a quick reply, telling him I would swing by his place around 5. Phone shoved in my pocket, I head back out to the common area and plop myself in between Reiner and Bertholdt, stealing a controller and challenging one of them to a round. I need to wind down a bit anyway.

**::**

By the time 4:30 rolls around, I’m already ready, and debating whether or not I should simply head to Marco’s a little early. I watch aimlessly as Reiner and Bertholdt get ready for their night out, and silently I wish they would have agreed to come with me tonight. But I suppose it will be fine. Despite my um, rather perturbing dream earlier, I think tonight should be okay. And I know I’ve attempted to tell myself this a million times already, but maybe, just _maybe_ if I can force myself to be normal around him, to simply grow comfortable with being Marco’s friend, maybe things will get easier.

I’m not holding out much hope, but this is really all I have. Because I just don’t have it in me to let him go. Grabbing up my keys, phone, and wallet, I figure that he probably won’t mind if I do come a little early, and with a quick wave goodbye to Bertholdt and Reiner, I head off to Marco’s.

I take my time as I walk the short distance between our dorms, dragging my feet along the sidewalk, enjoying the cool dusk that’s settling over the campus. As I enter his building and ascend the stairs steadily, I can feel the faintest hints of butterflies flittering about in my stomach. Reaching the top, I have to pause for a moment, inhaling deeply, pointedly ignoring the spot by the door where Marco – far too drunk for his own good – had invaded my space, caged me against the wall, moved his body flush against mine.

I sigh and move with intention into the hall and to Marco’s door. I knock quickly, and I hear Marco’s muffled voice from behind the door call out.

“S’open!”

Easing it open, I slide inside. Marco is sitting atop his bed, a couple text books and a notebook open in front of him. He scribbles quickly with his pencil before glancing up to greet me. He peers at me over the rims of his glasses and smiles.

Dropping his pencil, he slips his glasses off and straightens out his back. With a quick lift of his arms, he stretches and groans.

“Hey, you. Is it 5 already?”

“Oh, nah. Just got bored so I came a little early.”

“Totally fine; I desperately needed a break anyway.”

“Whatcha working on? You better not be going over neuro without me.” I jibe with a small smile, leaning back against the door. Marco just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Never. Wouldn’t even dream of it, my dear. Nah, just slaving over some Calc. Have you come to rescue me?”

“Oh yes, I’m going to whisk you away from all this.” I force out, trying like hell to maintain the smile and jovial nature I’ve kept up so far.

“My hero,” Marco sighs dreamily with a quick wink. He stands up from his bed, disregarding his notebooks and texts, and shuffles over to his closet. I watch idly as he flicks through a few shirts before he seems to decide on one and yanks it off its hanger.

There isn’t a moment’s hesitation as he yanks off the shirt he’s currently wearing, and I have to force myself to look away, pointedly _not_ noting the way his back muscles and arms flex as he pulls the fresh fabric over his hair. I refuse to look at the way it ruffles his hair, a few strands standing up from the static.

I’ve seen Marco shirtless numerous times at this point, and yet it still feels so intimate. So private. Something I’m not supposed to see outside of practice… and even then, I feel like an invader. A violator. But Marco doesn’t seem to mind at all. He just drags his fingers through his hair, trying to settle the stray locks.

“So, you plan on telling me where we’re going tonight?”

“Oh! Right. Yeah. Now feel free to say no, cause this might not be your thing at all, and if not, that’s totally cool. But there’s this really awesome hookah bar here in town that we all like to go to. I figured I could take you, if you’re okay with it?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been to a hookah bar. That’s that water smoking thing, right?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Well I am down! Sounds like fun.” Marco grins at me, ushering around his room and grabbing up his wallet and phone and keys. “Are the others going?” He asks me idly, and there’s a moment when I panic. Do I tell him that it’s just going to be us and leave it there? Does that sound too ambiguous or as if I had intended it to be just him and me? Would he even care that it’s just the two of us?

“Oh, no…” I mumble, “I invited them, but they’re busy. Bert and Reiner have their little date night tonight, you know?”

“Oh well, their loss. Who needs ‘em? We can just have our own little date night, eh?” Marco asks with a punctuated eyebrow wiggle followed by a strong clap on my shoulder as he ushers by me without a care. I move away from the door quickly, unsure of whether or not I should even reply to his comment. Instead, I simply force out a chuckle and follow Marco as he heads out into the hall.

He leads the way dutifully down the hall towards the stairwell, glancing back at me occasionally.

“Soooo, my car?” He asks, slowing down to walk at my side.

“No, no, I’ll drive. I know how to get there anyway.”

“Cool.”

I try to ignore the way he brushes his shoulder close against mine as we walk.

**::**

As we pull up to the hookah bar, I can see Marco glancing over the building with a mild look of confusion on his face. I’ll admit it: from the outside, this place doesn’t look like much. It’s a dark building, with a thick coat of navy blue paint on the outside and heavily tinted windows. The only signs revealing its name are a couple that read “Oasis: Hookah Bar and Lounge”.

I smirk at his furrowed brow.

“Don’t worry, dude. It’s really nice inside.”

“I suppose I’m just gunna have to trust that you aren’t going to let me be murdered.” Marco chuckles, taking off his seatbelt and hopping out of the car.

“Oh, for the love of god, you drama queen.” I mutter back to him, hopping out of my side as well.

“Hey! All I’m saying is, if I get murdered, you can bet I’m gunna haunt your ass forever.”

The two of us head towards the entrance, and for a moment, I’m somewhat surprised there isn’t a line. It’s only then I remember that it’s only a little after 5:00. The place doesn’t usually get busy until 6 at the earliest. Maybe it’s best we came a little early. Sometimes when you come late, it’s impossible to get a good place to sit.

“Oh, have your ID out.” I tell him quickly, turning to open the entrance, but I stop when I feel his hand grip my arm warmly. I turn my attention to him.

“Hey, thanks for taking me out tonight. Didn’t really wanna just stay cooped up…” is all Marco says, releasing my arm after giving me a brief squeeze. There’s nothing I really have to say back to him; so instead, I simply smile and nod as warmly as I can, and hope that the gesture is enough.

I slide out my ID and my membership card from my wallet and feel Marco tap me on the shoulder.

“What’s the blue card?”

“Oh, right, you aren’t a member. Well, okay, you’ll have to make a membership. It’s like… $5. But don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”

“You don’t have to…” Marco says as I’m opening the door for the two of us.

“I want to.” I tell him coolly, ushering him inside.

Once the two of us are inside, I can tell Marco is a little taken aback. He gets a bit quiet and starts glancing attentively around the room. Like I said, Oasis doesn’t look like much from the outside, but on the inside it’s a richly decorated area. It’s a calm space, ornately and yet soothingly designed and decorated to create an easy sensation of comfort. The lights are always dim, emitting only a soft, golden and blue hue around the room, and there’s always a playlist of calm, relaxing electronica music playing. I can’t help but smile at the happy little grin that begins to seep its way onto Marco’s lips.

I quirk my head and regain his attention, steering the two of us towards the counter. We both hand over our ID’s and I hand the teller my membership card, telling him that we need to get Marco a membership as well. It only takes a moment, the man reviewing Marco’s ID and typing in a few things on his computer before he pulls out a new card and write’s a large **“Marco Bodt”** on the front, followed by an expiration date for the membership.

“Alright, you’re all set. It’s a one year membership, and a one-time fee of $5, membership renewals are $3,” the man tells Marco, sliding the new card and his ID to him. I quickly pull out my wallet and hand him a $5 bill.

“Great, thanks, guys. Have a seat anywhere and we’ll be by with a menu in just a moment.”

I nod to the man and mutter a brief thanks before stepping away from the counter and surveying the room. Usually it’s nigh-impossible to find a seat in this place, but it seems our early arrival played out well for us. There’s only one or two other people in the room, and they’re both occupying a couple of the booths by the wall. Almost all the couches are free and so I gesture vaguely around the room.

“Where you wanna sit?” I ask him, shoving my wallet back into my pocket.

“The couches look good. Just lead the way.”

I head quickly towards the two couches that are perched in the corner. I tend to like to sit a ways away from the door and the main vents, if only because drafts are annoying when you’re trying to enjoy a little smoke. I plop myself down on the loveseat, and Marco situates himself on the loveseat that sits perpendicular to my own. We’re both close still, each of us with our own couch and arm to rest on, though I must admit I’m mildly disappointed that Marco hadn’t simply wanted to sit on the same couch as me. I glance away from him and pull out my keys and wallet, setting the items on the coffee table in front of us.

“Okay,” Marco starts, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “how’s all this work?” He asks eagerly. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Uh, well, they’ll bring a menu. Then we’ll pick a flavor that we want, and then they’ll bring us the hookah. Then we smoke.”

“It’s not going to make me choke, is it? I mean… I don’t smoke at all…”

I can’t help but note that Marco sounds almost nervous. I smile at him, reclining back on the cushions a bit.

“I don’t smoke either, not cigarettes at least. Nah, you’ll be fine. This isn’t smoke like in a cigarette. This is a different kind of tobacco: it’s called ‘shisha’. I mean, it’s still tobacco, you know? But it also has fruit in it and it’s usually soaked in kind of molasses or syrup, so it’s very sweet and flavorful. It’s also water-cooled and so it isn’t hot or burning like in a cigarette.”

I lean up for a moment, glancing around the room to see if anyone already had a hookah out. Someone sitting at the booth already has theirs and is smoking on it casually. I garner Marco’s attention and point across the room.

“Okay, you see the [hookah](https://www.thehookahhype.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/KM-Black-Shareef-Hookah2.jpg) over there?”

“Yeah.”

“So you see how there’s a base, a pipe-like cylinder atop the base, and a little bowl on top with foil on it, right? And then the hose?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s water in the base. The shisha goes in the bowl on the top and you cover the bowl with foil and poke some holes in it. You place the coal on the foil and it roasts the tobacco. You breathe in through the hose on the side. The roasting tobacco smokes and that smoke travels down the pipe and gets cooled by the water in the base, then it goes to you through the hose.”

“Oooh, okay, I think I get it.”

“You’ll see it better once we get ours.”

A server comes by and hands the two of us a menu, asking if we want anything to drink. After Marco declines, I wave him off, saying we’ll just need a second to decide what we want. I see Marco glancing almost frantically over the menu, and I have to admit this is easily the most confused I’ve seen in him a while and I can’t help the way it makes me smile.

“What’s wrong?” I ask with a giggle.

“These names are nonsense. Dragon’s Breath. Blue mist. Green envy. THIS TELLS ME NOTHING.”

“Okay, what kind of flavors do you like? Do you like mint? Berry? Fruit?”

“Um. I like minty things… and berry too.”

“Okay, we’ll start with Magic Dragon, and if you don’t like it we’ll try something else. But Magic Dragon is a real crowd pleaser. It’s kind of a…. blueberry mint. Really good.”

The server comes back around and I quickly order Magic Dragon for us. Marco and I sit in silence for a few moments as we wait, just listening to the music as it lulls through the room, and watching as a few more people slide into the building and head to the counter. I glance over at Marco and tap his knee with my own.

“Also, if you don’t like it at all, that is _totally_ okay. You don’t have to smoke if you don’t like it.”

Marco smiles.

“Oh, I know. But thanks.”

“Okay, just wanted to make sure you weren’t gunna run to Reiner and cry that I peer pressured you.”

“I wasn’t before, but now I’m so going to, even if I like it.”

“You would.”

We lull back into a comfortable silence, and I have to admit that I’m already feeling better. This afternoon’s heated dream is merely a memory at the moment. It’s a memory I’m trying to forget, but at least it is only that: a memory of a fevered, dreaming mind that can be erased and hopefully forgotten. Because no, Marco may not be in my bedroom grinding against me with fervor, he may not be flush against me atop a mattress with his mouth burning kisses into my flesh… But that Marco wasn’t real. And the _real_ Marco is sitting here by me, enjoying his time with me. We aren’t on the same couch, but we’re still close, and he’s real and he’s smiling and laughing with me like he always does – like there’s never once been conflict between us. Like he’s known me for years and wants to know me for years to come.

Like he has no problem at all calling this a little ‘date night’ for the two of us. As if it were normal. As if it were something he and I did all the time.

Marco is here, and he’s real, and he hasn’t abandoned me yet. (Only god knows why he hasn’t, but I’m not going to question it right now.)

I sink further back into the cushions of the couch, and turn my head to look at him. Maybe it’s the dim lights in this place, maybe it’s the music, but I’m feeling very calm. And frankly, I’m having fun.

And when Marco smiles back at me, I feel like maybe, for once, it’s okay for me to revel in his presence.

I only glance away from Marco when the server brings our hookah to our table. It’s a large hookah, and I can tell from Marco’s face that it’s bigger up close than what he was expecting. The server hands the two of us the plastic-wrapped mouth pieces and tells us to let him know if we need anything. I nod and Marco thanks him. Flicking my eyes over, I note that my companion seems to be waiting for me to take the lead. And so, I lean forward and unravel the hose, before unwrapping the small plastic mouthpiece and shoving it firmly on the end of the hose.

I actually take a minute to examine the hose before taking a breath from it. These must be new hookahs, or at least new hoses. The end is molded beautifully, shaped languidly into the shape of a cobra’s head and I make sure to point it out to Marco. He grins and muses about how cool it looks.

“If you want, we can trade our mouth pieces or we can just share. Doesn’t matter to me. Pretty sure you aren’t diseased.” I jibe at him and he smiles.

“Fine with me. Okay, so… show me what to do.”

“It’s easy,” I tell him, bringing the tip to my mouth. “You just inhale.”

I take a deep inhale, the water in the base of the hookah burbling at the air flow I’m creating. I can already taste the rich flavor of the shisha as it tiptoes across my tongue. I exhale slowly, a large cloud of smoke trickling past my lips, and offer the hose to Marco.

“You should kinda feel the water bubble a bit as you inhale, if that helps.” I mumble as he takes it from me.

“Okay.” He says, bringing the hose to his mouth, and taking a quick breath.

It’s an extremely short-lived inhale, but he does get a little bit of smoke, and puffs it out in a wispy exhale with ease. The look of self-pride on his face is picture worthy.

“I did it!” Marco beams, “But my smoke wasn’t as thick as yours.”

I take the hose back from him and inhale again, exhaling another large cloud of smoke.

“You just didn’t inhale very long or deeply, it’s okay. You’ll get more used to it.”

I offer it back to him and he seems to take it gleefully.

“How do you like it? Taste okay?”

With another brief inhale and exhale, he puffs out another small cloud of smoke, a bit thicker this time than his first attempt.

“Tastes _awesome_.”

He quickly passes the hose back to me, but as I reach for it, my fingers fumble and almost drop it. Marco sighs at that, and once I have ahold of the hose, he quickly stands up.

“This is too hard; I’m coming to your couch.”

I do my best to simply inhale as calmly as I can, watching as Marco makes his way around the coffee table and plops onto the cushions beside me. There’s a few inches of space between us, for which I’m very grateful, and I steadily offer him back to the hose as I hold my own breath of smoke in.

“That’s better,” He mumbles, taking a quick puff from the hookah. I let myself slowly exhale the smoke I’ve held in, trying like hell to focus on the way it flows from my mouth, and _not_ on the feeling of Marco’s presence beside me.

We calmly pass the hose back and for, and with each inhale he takes, I can tell he’s growing more accustomed to the feeling of it. Each puff is a bit deeper and thicker, richer with smoke and scent to my nose. He’s bound to be experiencing more of the flavor now, too. He sighs languidly as he hands me the hose again. He settles back into the cushions a bit, a gentle smirk gracing his lips as he watches me.

“Oh,” I say quickly, only just now remembering to tell him, “You might get a little buzz. Won’t last long or make you feel weird. It’s just the nicotine. It isn’t like alcohol or anything, you know? You’ll just feel really relaxed and maybe a bit floaty for a bit. It’s nice.”

“Thiiiink it might already be hitting me,” Marco breathes happily.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, since it’s your first time.”

Marco shuffles a bit, settling back more deeply into the comfort of the cushions. He doesn’t hesitate to plaster himself against my side. His arm is flush with the skin of my own, and I can feel the warmth of his flesh seeping into me.

“Oh, here, watch.” I say suddenly, leaning forward and away from him a bit. I want to revel in his presence, but perhaps the contact is a bit too much for me.

“Hmm?” He asks softly, watching as I lean forward and take a deep inhale from the hose.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the smoke ready in my mouth, I open my lips slightly and tap on my cheek a few times, sending a few small rings soaring from my mouth. Marco actually exclaims a bit as I do it, chuckling hard and leaning up a bit to watch me more closely. I tap my cheek a few more times, sending out a few more rings much to Marco’s amusement, before I puff out a larger ring and exhale the rest of the smoke.

“Oh my god, Jean. That was. Sorcery. Witchcraft.”

I can’t help the bashful smile that squirms onto my face. Because I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Marco being impressed with me; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Marco looking at me like that. Looks of happiness and awe, and I want nothing more than to make him smile over and over again until his cheeks hurt and his eyes have wrinkles at the corners.

Because he is so beautiful when he smiles.

“Teach me.” He pleads eagerly.

“Hah, okay, okay. So um. It isn’t too hard. You just inhale, open your mouth and make kind of an O shape with it.”

Marco opens his mouth and makes an O face, but with exaggerated puckered lips, and I can’t help the gross chortle I let out.

“What?!” he demands.

“Not… not like that. Don’t pucker your lips. Just a normal O with your face, like you’re going “oooooo” or something.”

“Like this?” He does his best to mimic me and I nod when he somewhat has it close.

“Yeah. And then instead of… _exhaling_ … you’re going to just barely breathe out and kinda push the smoke out with your tongue. And while you do that, just tap your cheek. Small little rings should come out.”

Marco just stares at me again. I clear my throat, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

“Um, do you want me to show you again?”

He nods eagerly, eyes suddenly alight, and he leans forward just a bit to watch me closer. I don’t hesitate to take another deep inhale, poise my head up and ease the smoke out of my mouth. As it seeps, I tap my finger along my cheek, producing a long series of small hoops with ease.

And Marco… Marco stares at me like I’ve created the sun and I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to respond, but the hot, burning sensation in my stomach in unmistakable. And so I simply swallow thickly and offer him the hose.

“Wanna try?”

He nods again and takes the hose from me, sitting up a bit more straight. He takes a quick breath, getting a little bit of smoke in his lungs before he opens his mouth and taps his cheek. Nothing happens though; the smoke just puffs out in a small cloud. Marco actually looks a little disappointed, his shoulders slumping a bit as he finishing his exhale.

“Aw…” He mumbles.

“No, no, you did good! Literally no one gets it the first time you try. Just try again, you’ll get it eventually.”

Marco extends the hose out to me again.

“Can you do it again? Maybe I’m not doing it right.”

“Sure. You just gotta make sure you don’t just exhale the smoke; otherwise it’s gunna come out in a puff like it did for you. Just ease it out with your tongue. The tapping part looked fine though, so once you get the first part, you might get it!”

I do the trick again, Marco watching my every move attentively and I can’t say I’m exactly unhappy with having his attention on me. I can’t say I’m unhappy about anything that’s happening between us right now. Marco grinning at me like I just pulled a rabbit out of a hat, sitting close to me, smiling and laughing at things I’m teaching him. Just the two of us… having fun as if nothing could change the way we are together.

Maybe Marco isn’t _avoiding_ letting go of me, letting me stay frozen and trapped the muck and grime of the riverbed. Maybe he just doesn’t _want_ to let me go. Maybe he doesn’t want me to stay there.

I shake my head, trying my best to rid myself of thoughts like that. If I’m ever going to grow to accept Marco as simply my friend, it’s best I leave those thoughts at the door. Just be happy that he’s here. Don’t think too hard about this.

I watch him as he takes another inhale, a little more deeply this time, and poises to attempt the rings again. He gets his mouth in the right position, and starts tapping his cheek a little earlier than before. I watch as the smoke seeps out of his mouth more slowly this time, though never actually forming into rings. There are a few times when small little vortexes start to form: the beginnings of hoops ready to shape up, but not quite given the technique to fully create them.

He sighs the last bit of smoke out dramatically.

“Ughhhh, I give up.” Marco groans, handing me the hose again and slouching back onto the couch cushions.

“No, no, don’t! Dude, that was literally only your second try. It took me ages to get it right.”

Marco just shrugs. I can tell he’s a bit frustrated; I don’t know that he’s used to not succeeding at something almost immediately. It’s almost endearing to see him get a little flushed when he can’t nail this on the first try.

“You’ll get it, I promise. And once you do, it’s gunna be like cake.”

“Yeah… Thanks.” He grins at me again and leans forward a bit, moving a bit more into my space once again.

“You have any other tricks?”

“Uhhh. I can do normal smoke rings. I can do a French inhale… I can do a dual exhale.”

“Show me.”

I try my best not to blush, hoping to god that the dim lighting in the room will be my saving grace. Because there’s something about the way he looks at me that I can’t seem to let go of. A mix of pride and intrigue and excitement. And so, I smile and look down, taking another deep breath, and going through another few tricks. I puff out a few hoops, I inhale again, breathing out the smoke only to inhale it again through my nose, and with each trick I do, Marco just looks so excited and intrigued, and I’m just… I feel good.

I feel better about the two of us. I feel comfortable again. And maybe it’s the nicotine, maybe it’s the little buzz that’s flittering its way about my head, but I let myself lean back against the cushions and I let my body sit flush with his.

**::**

The bowl smokes for a good long while, but it finally starts to peter out. Marco seems to notice, cringing a little bit at the dull taste of it.

“Tastes weird…” He murmurs on a sigh.

I nod at him, glancing at the way our knees are still touching, at the way we’re still sitting flush together side by side.

“Yeah. Bowl’s about done. Did you want another one?”

“If you do, then I do.”

“I could smoke another.”

“Well, then pick something!”

I wind up ordering us a bowl of Absolute Zero. I warn Marco that it’s mostly a mint flavor – heavily mixed with peppermint and spearmint, so it will feel cool and a touch sweet. Once it comes, he seems to enjoy it. Laughing about how cool it feels, and how he can feel the mint tingling through his chest.

I watch him quietly with a hazy happiness as he attempts the rings a few more times. Marco never quite nails them, but each time he gets a little better, creating slightly better vortexes. I make sure to tell him each time that he’s doing better so he doesn’t become discouraged when he can’t immediately send little cheerios soaring through the air.

We smoke for a good while longer, the two of us simply lounging together and talking quietly. More people have filtered into the place, but it’s still relatively quiet and calm, and despite their presence, it still feels private. A few times, I almost forget that we’re in public, Marco and I talking softly together about nothing and nonsense, talking about things that don’t matter, and things that make him beam. And I’m okay with this.

The next thing I know, it’s a little past 9:00, and Marco and I both are looking a little tired. The hookah bowl had finished up a few moments ago, and reluctantly, I ask if Marco is ready to leave. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I’m not particularly ready to go. This evening had been nice, so easy and comfortable, and I’m afraid that the minute we step past the threshold of this building, that reality will sink back in. But reluctantly, I force myself to get up, grabbing our tab, and leading Marco steadily through the small crowd that has gathered. He doesn’t even hesitate to grab ahold of my arm, hanging onto me with ease as we move through the people towards the counter.

Marco asks to pay for part of the bill, but I refuse, pointedly telling him that I’ve got it covered. I tell him firmly that tonight is my treat, and he seems to accept that. Grinning with just the corner of his mouth and nodding in agreement.

As we leave, my nervousness seems to hit once again. I knew it would come, I knew that I couldn’t stay in the insulated bubble that was the hookah bar. Now that we’re standing outside in the night air, and things seem all too real again. Within an instant, I am anxious again, afraid now of what I should say, how I should act, what I should do. But Marco doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he glances up at the night sky as we head to the car, musing about how there so many stars out tonight.

I don’t say anything, opting to simply unlock the doors and get in the car.

“This was really fun,” Marco says in the darkened car, sliding his seat belt on slowly. I mirror his action and mutter a quick agreement. I start up the car quickly, but don’t put it into gear just yet. There’s a moment when Marco and I simply sit in silence, and I wonder perhaps if it would be okay if I were to let us just sit here for a while longer. I wonder if maybe I should simply drive us back. But I don’t want to yet.

“You know, Jean…” Marco says, leaning his head against his window a bit and looking at me, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you.”

I scoff, trying my best to not sound panicked.

“Heh, you mean annoying and grumpy?” I ask hesitantly.

“Oh, yeah, _totally_.” Marco pauses. “No, I mean. I don’t know what it is. I’ve never really known anyone like you. You’re just… I don’t know, I don't know what it is… But it’s good.”

“It _is_ good, isn’t it?” I whisper softly, almost hoping he hasn’t heard me. No matter how much I want to pine and angst, our friendship is good. 

“It is.”

We don’t say anything more, and with that, I put the car in gear and return the two of us to campus. Once we park, we head back towards Marco’s dorm in silence. Since the parking lot is on the opposite side of Marco’s dorm, I figure I can simply cut through his building to head back to my own. And yet, instead of parting with him on the main floor and returning to my dorm, I simply follow him up the stairs and to his room.

Once inside, he plops heavily onto his mattress, and I ease into his desk chair. Neither of us says anything for a while, and I wonder a few times if this is uncomfortable silence. It seems to be for me, but Marco doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He never seems bothered.

With as much as resolve as I can muster, I sigh slowly and force myself to stand.

“Well, I should probably get back.”

“Ah, come on…” Marco whines, and I’ll admit that that wasn’t what I was expecting. He shrugs a bit. “Stay, man. Pleeeeeease. I got movies. Popcorn. We’ll have a regular lazy Saturday night.”

I’m quiet for a moment, biting my lip as I look at his exaggerated, pleading face. And I break. A small smirk creeps onto my lips.

“Do I get to destroy your mattress in the name of the Palette Gods like you did to my couch?”

“Of course.” He replies, as if it were obvious.

I chuckle and sigh.

“Yeah, okay. Why not?”

Marco beams at me, standing up to glance over his movies, clicking on his television in the process.

“What did you want to watch?” I ask him softy, sinking down onto his mattress.

“How. Abooouuuuuut. The Strangers?”

“Okay," I mumble back to him with a little grin. 

**::**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally earned that explicit rating, phew. The next chapter will DEFINITELY earn it too. Stay tuned! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed it; I apologize about how long this chapter took! Any comments you'd like to leave would be SO greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, everyone!
> 
> And, as usual, I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) if you guys want to check me out.


	16. Home Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _//There's a corner of your heart for me_   
>  _There's a corner of your heart just for me_   
>  _I will pack my bags just to stay in the corner of your heart_   
>  _Just to stay in the corner of your heart//_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Ingrid Michaelson || Corner of Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Terms:  
> Not really a term, per se, but there is a tradition in rowing that when a boat takes first (especially at a big/important race), that the rowers will throw their coxswain in the water to celebrate. Seen [HERE](http://www.sunjournal.com/files/imagecache/medium/2012/08/02/LondonOlympicsRowin_Reav.jpg).
> 
> Unfortunately, my beta wasn't able to get to this chapter due to her laptop giving up on her. I've gone through it numerous times to hopefully eliminate any errors/typos, but it's a very long chapter, so please forgive if there are any slip-ups. There shouldn't be many though... I hope not, at least.

I awake slowly and easily, bleary eyes blinking softly in the yellow glow of the early morning sun. Lying on my stomach in the midst of a nest of mattress, blankets, cushions, and pillows, I remember with ease where I am. Lying next to me, head turned carelessly towards me, is Marco. In the background, I can hear a DVD menu repeating softly, but I can’t bring myself to move yet. I nuzzle my head down into the pillow a little bit, noting that it faintly smells of Marco – shampoo and hair and skin and whiffs of cologne.

I’m too comfortable to move, to content to lie here for just a moment longer, and watch as Marco sleeps. He’s so calm, so still when he sleeps. It’s one of the things I noticed first in the few times we’d fallen asleep near each other. I tend to toss and turn, sometimes only a little, sometimes enough to fling covers off myself and tangle my body in sheets. But Marco… he’s serene and calm as if in his sleep, everything is exactly how he wishes it to be. And he looks happy.

I can’t help but smile, however briefly. I draw my hand up, tucking it up under my face, and let my eyes relax a bit. Marco’s freckles dance and blur as I stare, amassing and moving into soft little patterns before my eyes.

As I stare, I watch him inhale a bit more firmly, nose twitching a little, moving his head as he begins to wake slowly. I should turn away, I should close my eyes or divert my gaze, but I don’t want to. I want to see him as he wakes, even though I should simply pretend I hadn’t been watching him. Because normal people don’t just watch their friends wake up. But even as Marco’s eyes flit open gently, I don’t turn away.

He meets my gaze with softness and a smile, breathing in steadily through his nose, before closing his lids once more. He groans softly – tranquil and unperturbed – and mumbles.

“Mmmm, just a few more minutes.”

“We should get up…” I whisper slowly.

He shakes his head a bit, his eyes still closed, and presses a little more deeply into the cushion of his pillow. I watch with mild confusion as he untucks his arm from his body and drapes it gently across my shoulder.

“Five more minutes, Jean.” He mumbles again.

As his face begins to relax once more, falling quickly back into his early morning slumber, I feel his arm grow a tad heavier and lax across my shoulder.

I should move it, and I know that, but I can’t. I don’t want to. I want to let him touch me and I want to lie here and pretend that this is… okay… and normal… and that it doesn’t hurt.

Five minutes passes more quickly than I ever knew that it could. Marco still hasn’t budged, his arm still slung gently across my shoulders, but I know that I should wake him. It’s Sunday… we both have things we need to do. But the gentle pressure of his arm against my body, the calmness of his face, and the softness that seems to exist within the bubble that is Marco’s room, I just want to hold onto it all. But I know better. Steadily, I reach out and grip Marco’s shoulder a bit, giving him a gentle shake.

He groans and I can feel his arm flex across my shoulders, fingers moving to press into my flesh a little bit before releasing me and pulling his arm away.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

Marco sighs himself awake, blinking his eyes heavily and murmuring softly to himself.

“Okay, m’up, m’up.”

He pushes himself up to sit slowly, as I mimic his actions. Marco groans again and yawns, stretching out his limbs and ruffling up his hair.

“Man, I slept like the dead.” He mumbles through a yawn. I smile.

“Heh, me too.”

“Yesterday was a lot of fun, though.”

“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?”

Marco doesn’t say anything for a moment, pushing himself up to stand and stretching out a little more. I cross my legs and watch him begin to move about his room. He grabs a mug off the top of his microwave and turns to me.

“Tea?” He asks, but I just shake my head.

“No, thanks.”

Marco nods and steps into the connected bathroom, filing up the mug in the sink and returning to pop it in the microwave. I drag my hands through my hair, not really caring how much I might mess it up.

“I need  _coffee_ ,” I chuckle out lightly.

“Preach.” Marco laughs back. “Man, I gotta work on calc today… I got a fucking exam on Tuesday.”

“Yeah… I need to work on my painting… Final project due date’s coming up soon…”

Marco smiles and glances back at me, the microwave humming lightly in the background.

“How’s it coming?” He asks with intrigue.

“Uh… It’s coming, I guess… Still a lot to work on…”

Marco hums a response as the microwave dings. He turns and pulls the mug out, dropping the tea bag in to steep.

“Why don’t we go together?” He asks, his back to me as he pulls out a couple packets of sugar, “You paint, I’ll work on calc. It’d be nice to not have to suffer alone,”

Marco chuckles and turns back to me. I don’t reply at first, too busy thinking over my painting, and at my silence, his face falls just a little.

“Unless, you aren’t comfortable with that. I can hit the library or something.”

“No! No, that’s… that’ll be fine. Might be nice to have some company.”

I vaguely think back to earlier in the semester when I had so gruffly shut Marco down about my work.

_“Well, you’ll have to let me see some of your work sometime.”_

_“Uhhh, I don’t think so.”_

Plenty of times, I think that perhaps things haven’t changed much between the two of us… and yet, here we are, just a few months of knowing each other, staying over in each other’s rooms, and me agreeing to let him accompany me to the studio. I don’t know if I should be happy about it or frustrated. Maybe things would have been better or easier if I had successfully managed to avoid and shut Marco out.  Perhaps I would have been happier, saner, more collected.

But then Marco smiles at me, stirs his tea, takes a sip from the piping hot mug. He hisses a little at the temperature. And I think,  _how empty would I be without him?_

Despite my conflicting emotions, despite my constant internal battles, how empty would I be without this person to brighten my life?

I smile back at him.

Marco holds the mug out, silently offering me a sip of it. I stand and take it from him without a word, easing a sip of the sweet, hot drink into my mouth.

I sigh softly and hand it back to him.

“I should probably get a shower…” I mutter.

“Same. How about we meet in the studio in like an hour?”

“Okay.”

**::**

I leave Marco’s room without much else to say, walking slowly back to my room. Early Sunday morning fills the sidewalks with numerous other students who perhaps hadn’t stayed in their own rooms the night before, all migrating their way back towards their rooms, and I can’t help but wonder if any of them are in a situation like mine. I’m sure at least a few of them must be.

I ease into my suite, my sights landing on Reiner. He’s flitting about the kitchen, starting up the coffee maker and clearing a couple dishes out of the sink. As I enter, he turns his gaze to me, and smiles.

“Hey, you.”

“Mornin’.” I murmur back, already making my way back towards my bedroom. His voice stops me short.

“You were out all night.”

“Yeah… Hung out with Marco.” I state matter-of-factly.

“Ohhhh, anything happen??”

I don’t need to look at Reiner to note the heavy suggestion in his voice. I hang my head a little, answering perhaps a bit more curtly than I intend to.

“You know nothing happened. Please stop asking.”

I expect Reiner to say something witty or sarcastic, to keep giving me a hard time, but he doesn’t. He stays quiet for a moment before speaking steadily.

“Okay.”

I don’t reply this time, continuing quickly into my room and to the shower.

**::**

I get to the studio only a couple minutes late, but Marco is already there. He’s sitting at one of the tables, head bowed over a text book, alternating between it and his notebook where he’s scribbling frantically. In front of him, two cups rest idly.

“Hey,” I say as I head in. He perks up immediately, picking up one of the cups and offering it to me.

“Got you coffee.”

“With cream, sugar, and cocaine?” I chuckle back to him.

“Just how you like it,  _dear_ .”

I take a quick sip and sigh, moving towards the other side of the room and grabbing up an easel and the rest of my supplies. Marco sips his own coffee and returns his attention back to his calculus work as I set myself up.

As I gather my canvas, I make a point to place my easel somewhat out of Marco’s line of sight. Not necessarily because I think he will judge me, but because I’m not sure if I’m ready or willing to share it yet. It’s become something important to me… intimate and personal. And I’m just not sure if I want to share it just yet.

Our final assignment had been vague – which seemed to be this professor’s modus operandi with all our projects – we were simply assigned to do a landscape. It sounded easy and boring enough, to be honest, until it had been specified that rather than just painting a normal landscape, we had to paint a personal landscape. It had to be a landscape with purpose and meaning to us, something that one could tell held special significance to the artist.

I tried to think of a lot of things to do – I thought perhaps I could do a cityscape of Trost. It was my home town after all, and I had a lot of memories here. Or perhaps I could do a scape of my house and the woods that surrounded it. But none of it felt right. After a while, I had decided to do a scape of the river.

The more I had worked on it, the more of myself I’d begun to see it. From the sunrise lifting over the horizon, to the expansive silhouette of the island in the middle of the water, and eventually, really before I’d even noticed, I had begun to paint the silhouette of a rowing shell atop the glassy surface of the water.

I stare at my canvas for a moment, letting my eyes graze over the unfinished brushstrokes. I begin to paint in silence, only occasionally glancing over at Marco as he scribbles in his notebook or clicks a few keys on his calculator. We stay this way for a while, a comfortable quiet lulling over the room, only interrupted by the faintest of noises from mine or Marco’s movements. A good hour or so passes before I note Marco beginning to straighten up his back, stretching and groaning softly to himself before downing the last bit of his coffee.

I glance over my work once more. It really is starting to come together. The rowing shell now is a dark splotch, outlined into the shape of a double, with the unfinished silhouettes of two male figures sitting in it. I stared at it for a moment, leaning forward slightly and dragging the tip of my brush finely along the surface, forming an arm off of the rower in the back of the boat, extending it out to touch the shoulder of the rower in front of him.

I pause, lowering my brush and setting it down. With another chug of my coffee, I glance back over at Marco, his body once again hunched down over his work.

I clear my throat softly.

“Did you, uh… did you want to see it?”

Marco perks up instantly and smiles, pushing his notebook away and standing up.

“Yeah! If you’re sure, I mean.”

I smile softly at him, tilting my head a bit and nodding. He trots over to where I’m seated and comes to stand behind my stool, resting his eyes on the unfinished work in front of me.

Marco is quiet for a couple moments, and even though I felt okay about showing at first, the longer the silence reigns, the more I can feel the nervousness build up in my chest. I swallow thickly, waiting – just waiting – for him to say something. Eventually, I’m sure he’s not going to say anything, and I clear my throat, ready to defend myself.

“It’s uh, it’s not quite finished or – ” I start, but Marco’s hand coming to rest on my shoulder stops me.

“It’s amazing, Jean… Like… literally, this is  _so_ good.”

I turn and glance back up at him with a nervous grin.

“You really think so?”

“Of course…” He says again, his eyes still grazing over the canvas, “It’s gorgeous.”

His last remark is said gently, voice just above a whisper, and I can’t help but bask a bit in the sound of admiration in his voice. He squeezes my shoulder softly, silently reassuring me. There’s a big smile on his face, and – I assume without thinking – he steps a little closer to me, his chest just lightly touching against my back. I turn my head back towards my work and glance over it, wondering what all he sees in it, what all he feels.

The figures of the rowers are nothing more than silhouettes – no faces visible or distinguished – and yet, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps he sees what I see in it… I wonder if he sees the two of us in those faceless silhouettes, like I do. But I don’t ask. Part of me doesn’t want to know.

“Hell,” Marco starts up again, “if you don’t want it after it’s graded, I’ll fucking  _buy_ it from you.”

Marco chuckles lightly at his words. I lower my head a bit, shrugging lightly.

“Or how about I just give it to you?”

“Really? Well at least let me buy it a frame or something.”

“Heh… Deal.”

Suddenly, Marco’s other hand comes to rest on my other shoulder, and he gives them both a gentle squeeze, fingers rubbing lightly at my flesh through my shirt.

“Thank you for showing me. I mean it... It’s really great…”

I glance down at my hands, picking idly at the drying flecks of paint that have splattered their way across my fingers.

“No problem… I’m… I’m glad you like it.”

Marco just hums softly before releasing my shoulders. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t mildly disappointed at the loss of contact. The warm feeling of his body behind me, the reassuring grip of his fingers… I miss it already, wishing that he would come back and touch me again… if only for a moment longer.

“I think we’ve earned a break,” he says lightly, walking towards his table and snatching up his phone. He types something in and sets it down, music suddenly starting to play through its speakers. A distinctly Indian beat begins to play and I can’t help but smile as Marco starts to sway ever so slightly to it. The longer he dances, the larger my grin becomes, until eventually he stops and just looks at me with exasperation.

“What??” He demands.

“What… what on earth…”

“What?? It’s  [Wada Na Tod](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jC7h1Jwqtsc) !” He says defensively, before immediately beginning to move his hips again to the beat.

“I’m not dancing to this.”

“Ohhh, come on, no one’s watching.” Marco shoots me a wink.

I sigh dramatically before standing slowly, keeping a couple feet between us, and falling into a slight sway with the beat.

“There you go!” He says.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“That’s good, because you look ridiculous.”

“Oh haaah, haaaah.” I mock back, and yet, even after his comment, I can’t seem to stop my body from moving like his. “Where the hell do you even  _find_ this music?” I ask incredulously.

“Well, to be fair, I got this one from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

“Eternal what now?”

“It’s a movie…” he says, steadily grooving his way back over to his phone, and starting to scroll through it, looking for another song.

“Can’t say I’ve seen it…”

“We’re definitely going to have to change that.” He tells me firmly, “You haven’t lived without that movie.”

“Hah, okay.” I say, my body still moving, only pausing when he selects a new song.

I don’t recognize the next song either, but it sounds kind of similar to the first one, except with a little more of a hip-hop beat to it.

“What’s this one?” I ask, shaking my head with a smile.

Marco’s still dancing like a fucking  _dork_ , and I can’t exactly laugh because I’m still doing the very same thing. Thank god the studio door is closed. I could only imagine if some poor security guard walked by and witnessed this ridiculousness.

“It’s called  [Addictive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Sw77Dminl8) .” 

“You’re fucking weird, Marco.” I tell him flatly.

He laughs and nods, his body never stopping his goofy moves.

“I accept that.”

He and I continue like that for a few more songs, moving around the studio like goddamn morons. And even after we stop, I note that we haven’t actually returned to working. Instead, he and I sit atop one of the tables and talk about nothing, bullshitting with each other and laughing, with Marco’s music playing in the background.

Eventually, through our smiles and laughter, he and I both admit we probably won’t be getting much more work done, and instead settle on grabbing some lunch with the promise that we  _swear_ , we’ll  _totally_ study neuro or something later.

**::**

In our defense, we  _did_ actually study neuro for a little while. With our lunches in tow, we’d headed back to his room and broken out the text books, idly discussing some of the latest chapters and powerpoints. The most recent sections cover emotions and their mechanisms, and eventually, after constant repetition and explanation of the systems and mechanisms, the two of us finally called it a day.

In the late afternoon, I head back to my dorm, trying to simply let myself enjoy the feelings from today. It’s difficult, but I do my best to try and block out all my persistent insecurities, telling myself to just savor the fun that Marco and I had had with each other today and yesterday.

_Don’t overthink this Jean._ We watched movies together, just like I do with Connie, or Reiner, or anyone else. We studied together, and he did math homework while I painted. It’s what friends do… it’s  _normal_ . Everything we did today and yesterday was  _normal_ . And I can’t let it go to my head.

I slip my key into the lock of my dorm and slide inside. Bertholdt’s the only one in sight, sitting on the couch idly, watching a movie. He cranes his head and glances at me over the back of the couch.

“Hey, dude.”

“Hey.” I say back.        

“You seem happy. Have a good day?”

“Uh… Yeah, actually.”

“What did you get up to?”

“Um. Worked on my painting… studied some neuro with Marco. “

“How are you two doing?”

“We’re fine…” I say curtly, and Bertholdt seems to understand immediately that I don’t much feel like talking about Marco. I don’t want to overanalyze anything… I don’t want to overthink. I just want to let today be a pleasant thought in my mind.

“Where’s everyone?” I ask, moving in towards the couch.

“Reiner and Connie are having a DifEQ study fest in the library. I said nooooo thank you. I paid my dues already.”

“I feel that.” I say with a chuckle, not-so-fondly remembering Bertholdt and I suffering side by side in our Differential Equations course last year.

Bertholdt pats the couch cushions, inviting me down to sit with him.

“Come chill with me.”

“Suuuure, why not?” I say, sighing softly as I settle down onto the couch. “What’re we watching?”

“Alien: Resurrection.”

“Oh god, terrible.” I laugh, Bertholdt nods solemnly.

“Yeah… It is truly a beautiful train wreck of science fiction cinema.”

“With the all-star cast, you wouldn’t think it could suck so hard…”

Despite the fact that this movie is undoubtedly one of the worst movies in the Alien franchise, Bertholdt and I sit and watch it in its entirety, laughing together and cutting up. And I can’t help but notice how similar he and I behave compared to me and Marco. Two friends… laughing together and watching movies… Two friends acting like normal friends do.

So why does it always feel so different with Marco?

Why does  _everything_ feel so different with Marco?

I mean… I know why… I know why simple things that friends do – like watching movies – makes my stomach flutter when I’m with Marco but doesn’t when I’m with Bertholdt. Things like this are normal – friends watch movies together, friends make jokes and laugh together, friends dance around like morons together. It’s normal and I need to get it through my head that there’s no difference between when Marco and I are together and when Bertholdt and I are together.

We’re friends.

We are  _friends_ .

And I am lucky, so very lucky, to be blessed with such amazing ones.

For once in my puny little life, I need to be happy with what I have. I need to quit feeling like being Marco’s friend isn’t good enough. Some people go their whole lives without friends like mine… Some people go their entire lives without meeting someone like Marco. And yet I can’t seem to just be satisfied with that. Marco’s friendship is a treasure, like Reiner’s and Bert’s and Connie’s. And just being his friend shouldn’t feel so bad that I should toss it all aside because of the stupid flurry of emotions inside of me.

I’m lost in my thoughts, so deeply lost, that it’s only when Bertholdt’s hand rests on my arm that I snap back to the present.

“You okay? You kinda zoned for a bit there…”

“Huh? Oh… Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking…”

“Wanna talk about it?” 

I pause for a moment, unsure of how to respond. I suppose that part of me does want to talk about this… but another part is simply not ready… unwilling to verbally acknowledge all the crazy bullshit that’s fluttered through my head ever since Marco had come into my life. I glance over at Bertholdt. I know that he knows how I feel about Marco… Bert isn’t as outspoken or brash as Reiner is, he’s not so in-your-face with advice and questions. But Bert has a quiet way about him: the knowing quiet of a perceptive observer, the understanding silence of someone who recognizes a problem, but knows that the person has to deal with it in their own ways.

I lick my lips and shrug halfheartedly.

“I dunno…” I start softly, “I just.”

I look over at Bert again; he’s silent but focused and attentive.

“Why do I do this shit to myself, man?” I mumble, dropping my gaze pointedly.

“Do what to yourself? Like someone?”

“Yeah, I guess… Like someone and not let myself just let him go.”

“Marco’s a good guy, Jean… You know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“He isn’t… he isn’t Daniel or anything, you know?”

I can’t bring myself to reply, and Bertholdt takes it as his cue to continue.

“Personally… I think you should talk to him about all this.”

I scoff sadly.

“And personally… I think I definitely shouldn’t.”

“Look, Jean… Here’s my two cents. You’ve tried forgetting it… And you don’t talk about it much, but it’s really not hard to tell what’s going on with you. You’ve tried and you’ve failed to let this… crush – or whatever you want to call it – go. I think you’re best bet is to talk to him… Get this out in the open. The worst thing that’s going to happen is that he tells you ‘no’.”

“That’s not the worst that can happen.”

“Then what is?”

“He could tell me no, he could tell me that he hates me, and that he never wants to see me again.”

“Jean… I don’t think Marco could ever even come  _close_ to hating you.” Bertholdt exhales steadily, adjusting himself a bit on the cushions to face me better. “I think at worst, he’d tell you ‘no’ and would  _maybe_ want a little time to himself to sort things out. But that boy adores you. I mean, shit, ask anyone on the team… You two are like this… untouchable entity.”

“And that’s exactly what I don’t want to ruin.” I whisper fiercely back.

“But do you honestly think hiding things and lying to him is going to do you any better in the long run?”

I pause, quickly diverting my gaze, curling my legs up a little more tightly beneath my body.

“I… I don’t know.”

“I know it’s easier said than done, I really do… And I can give advice all day long, but I’m not in your shoes, so maybe my advice isn’t on point. But I just feel like you’ll feel better if you get this thing with Marco off your chest. Because I literally do not think Marco could hate you even if he tried.”  

Sighing softly, I lift a hand to drag my fingers through my hair, tugging lightly on the ends in slight frustration. Bertholdt is probably right; I’m almost sure he’s right. And yet, I just can’t bring myself to take what he has to heart. Because there’s always that chance… there’s always that chance that if I talk to Marco and truly tell him how I feel, that he will decide he never wants to see me again. And I am not emotionally prepared for that. I’ve more than accepted that I’m not ready to let Marco go.

I shake my head slightly.

“I know… But. I just can’t, Bertl… I can’t.”

I expect Bertholdt to protest a bit, maybe even try to persuade me further, but he doesn’t. He stays quiet for a moment and nods, reaching forward to pat my arm reassuringly.

“Okay.” He says, understanding lacing his voice. He picks up the Playstation controller and begins scrolling through movies again. “You wanna watch another one?”

I smile a small, half-smile and nod. With a brief, muttered “Sure”, Bertholdt picks another, and leaves our conversation about Marco as is.

**::**

Monday comes before I know it, and the rest of the week passes with relative ease. Almost every day this week, we’ve been bombarded by torrential downpours of rain, leaving us stuck indoors on the rowing machines. On Thursday, it’s only drizzling – a severe improvement from the previous days’ monsoons – and I half expect Levi to tell us we’re going to go out on the water despite the rain. But he doesn’t. Once again, he directs us up into the erg room of the boathouse, where we all unhappily do our quick warm up.

After our brief start piece, Levi and Hanji gesture the group to the front to gather around them.

“Gather ‘round, everyone, chop chop.”

We quickly huddle around him, plopping on the floor to better hear him as he addresses the group.

“I know it sucks being stuck inside for so long in the peak of a season. Unfortunately, even though it’s not raining that hard today, I’ve still been seeing lightning periodically so we will  _not_ be going out just yet.”

As the room lets out a collective groan, Levi pauses for a moment, giving a brief nod to Hanji. She quickly leaves his side and begins to rearrange the ergs behind us into neat rows of 4.

“Today, we’re going to do something… a little different.” Levi starts, regaining our attention, “We’re going to do pieces. But we’re going to do them in pairs rather than individually.”

Marco and I shoot each other a quick glance as Levi continues.

“We’re going to be doing 12 x 500 meter pieces, at race pace. Sounds awful, I know, but since you’ll be doing them with a partner, and sharing an erg, you should have  _plenty_ of rest time in between each piece.

“So here’s what I want you to do: Pick a partner – preferably someone from your boat – and find an erg. I don’t care which one of you goes first, you can settle that yourselves. Here’s what I  _do_ care about: for these pieces, you two are going to cox and coach each other. While one of you rows, the other one is going to cox as if this were a race.”

Hanji finally returns to the front of the room and stands by Levi’s side. With a quirk of her lips, she grins and speaks.

“And for once, your actual coxswains are going to _shut the hell up_. Isn’t that nice? Sometimes you just really need your coxswains to shut up.” She lets out a loud laugh at her own joke, and the room begins to chuckle along with her. The entirety of my boat shoots a quick glance back at Armin, who simply shrugs and plasters a smug, little grin on his face.

Levi’s voice heralds out again, regaling our attention. “Your coxswains will be walking around the room, recording your scores, as usual, but they will not take part. I want your partner and  _only_ your partner to cox you. Understand?”

We meet Levi’s question with a brief chorus of affirmations, and he nods curtly before continuing.

“Great. Alright, pick a partner and find an erg. We’re starting in a couple minutes.”

Everyone steadily begins pairing up, and I watch as my boatmates begin to make their way to the back row of ergs. Marco bumps my shoulder, silently gaining my attention. Without a word, he raises his eyebrows questioningly, plastering on the stupidest fucking grin and I can’t help but laugh. With a brief nod, I agree and the two of us head towards the back to join the rest of our boat.

I can’t say I’m particularly surprised at the way my boat has paired up: Reiner with Bertholdt, Christa with Ymir, and Mikasa with Sasha. Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I guess. They all settle down onto their ergs, as Marco asks me quickly if I would rather go first or second.  

“I’ll go first, it’s fine.” I volunteer, dropping down onto the seat and turning on the monitor.

At the front of the room, a shrill whistle rings out, and the room goes silent, directing its attention back towards Levi.

“Go ahead and program your ergs for 500 meter intervals; I want the rest between each piece to be 15 seconds – enough time for the first rower to get off and the second to get on.”

As we program our machines, Levi’s voice continues to boom out across the room.

“There  _is_ a purpose to this exercise. The last race of this season is coming up very quickly, as you all know. Now, overall, I think you guys have done an incredible job this season. You’ve really grown as rowers, you’ve honed your skills, and you’ve learned to work together. Especially you novice here. But a big part of rowing isn’t just your technique, it isn’t just your power: it’s about  _understanding_ each other as rowers.

“The people in your boat depend on you, and you depend on them. There is a certain level of understanding and cognizance that you have to have in order to work together effectively. I think for the most part, you guys have done a great job with that. You’ve learned quickly that your boat is nothing without each member putting in everything they have.”

He pauses again, turning to Hanji and letting her take over.

“You guys have overcome a lot of obstacles this season – and you’ve done so quite admirably. From the novice freshly learning to row, to the mixed 8 adjusting to a new stroke seat… And we want to expand on that,” she says, hands gesturing with each word,

“We want you to learn each other better. Each piece you do, you’re gunna have your teammate there coxing you through it, and Levi and I want you guys to focus on the person you’re paired with. We want you to really get some insight into what drives your partner – and this goes for if you’re rowing or if you’re coxing. Everyone is a little different, everyone has certain things that are gunna push them harder, motivate them better, and today is a chance to learn that.”

“I want each piece that you guys do,” Levi picks back up, “to be faster than the one before it. You have plenty of rest to recover before the next 500 meters; your scores should improve each time. If you’re rowing, listen to the things your partner says to you, okay? Because the things they say are the things that first come to their mind when they want to encourage themselves. And if you’re coxing, pay attention to how your partner responds to things you say. If what you’re saying isn’t working, change it, try different approaches. Learn what  _works_ for them and what doesn’t.”

“Everyone got it?” Hanji asks enthusiastically. She’s met with a small chorus of affirmations from around the room. With a brief clap of her hands to glances to Levi and back at the group.

“Perfect! Let’s sit ready!”

I drag my body up to the catch, fingers itching around the handle as Marco moves to stand behind me. Hanji’s arm is in the air as she glances at us, gauging if we’re ready. 

"All, ready to row,” She starts, “and… row!”

And just like that, I’m pushing off the catch and Marco is suddenly kneeling at my side, voice already flowing, already attempting to cox me through it, right from the get-go.

The first piece is fairly easy, if I’m honest… The first one usually is. Marco spends most of it making his way through the usual coxswain talking points:  _‘you’re doing good’, ‘keep up the power’, ‘nice job’, ‘don’t give up’_ , he even throws in a couple power tens to keep me going.

It’s fine, I guess, but it isn’t…  _great_ . I figure the ease at which I get through it has less to do with Marco’s ability to cox me, and more to do with the fact that it was just the first piece.

As soon as the meters count down to zero, I stand up off the machine and Marco hops on in a flash. At first, I try simply to catch my breath, attempting to talk to him through my heavy breathing. I follow his coxing lead once I’ve regained enough air to actually talk with gusto: I tell him he’s working hard, he’s doing really good,  _don’t give up_ , and he seems to respond well enough. But I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing well for the same reason that I did well – not necessarily because of my coxing, but rather because the first piece is always easiest.

But he pushes his way through, and before I know it, he’s done and it’s my turn once again.

Marco and I slug through the next few pieces, each one steadily getting more difficult than the one before it. Whenever my turn comes to cox Marco, I can’t help but feel like I’m just repeating the same few phrases over and over again. The words that pop into my brain while Marco is on the erg are simply not enough to convey the power and drive I want to set alight within him. I just can’t seem to think of anything better… Idly, I wonder if this is what Armin feels like every day. I suppose this is why I’m a rower and not a coxswain in the first place.

I think, overall, we’re both doing pretty well on the pieces… Although, each one seems to be stretching us thinner and thinner and I have a feeling that he and I both will be hitting a wall sometime soon. I’m doing alright so far… But I can feel the way the power is steadily eking its way out of my muscles, shriveling and dying down…

By the eighth piece, I reach the drop off. 250 meters in and my legs are starting to feel a bit like Jello, my arms feel brittle, and there’s a deep, heaving ache in my chest from a poignant lack of oxygen.

I’m petering out… and I know it.

Marco seems to notice it too. And within an instant, the inflection of his voice changes; within a  _second_ , he shifts from a lofty voice that had recited the typical coxswain platitudes, to a voice that is deep and intense, a voice that suddenly commands every scrap of attention I have.

Gone are the idle banalities of  _‘great job!’_ and  _‘keep it up!’_ , replaced instead by intensity and ferocity that reminds me of the power that lurks beneath his skin.

“Stay with me, Jean! Don’t you  _dare_ let up!” He booms at me as my power seems to fade. And even though I’m wheezing and struggling, at the thunder of his voice, I push out another ounce of pressure, bringing my split down ever so slightly.

Just for him… Because he asked it of me.

“That’s it, Jean! That’s what I like to see!”

At his raucous encouragement, my score lowers once more, but it flits back up a little on the next stroke. At the sight of my yo-yoing split, Marco inches even closer to me, lowering his voice enough that I know it’s  _just_ for me, solely for  _my_ ears.

“ _Listen_ to me, Jean. I am  _right_ here. Okay? Do  **_not_ ** let up on that pressure. You can do this! I want to see absolutely every bit of power you have right here, right now. I’m with you every fucking stroke, I’m  **here** . I am  **_not_ ** going to let you give up, you got that?”

With wheezing breaths, I nod frantically, shoving off even harder from the catch with my legs, giving my arms an extra snap of speed at the finish. I watch my split drop lower and lower as the meters begin to tick by faster and faster.

It’s the last 50 meters, and I’m dizzy with the brunt of Marco’s power and reassurance.

“Yes! Push it, come on! You’re almost there, Jean! I’m here, power through for me, let’s  **go** !”

The final strokes, the final push, and all I can think about is… our first race together. As I claw my way down to zero meters, I remember how all I could think about was him…

I can only think about being breathless and exhausted, approaching the finish line, and ready to give Marco every ounce of fight I had if he asked it of me.

And here we are…

I finish my piece with a heave and Marco is praising me heartily as we fumble to switch places.

Before I’ve even registered it, he’s off the catch with a bang. I wheeze out my words, and I can only hope I’m being as encouraging to him as he was for me. With oxygen returning to my body, I find myself mimicking his enthusiasm, trying to return the guttural and intense power that he had shown me, as I talk him along.

And he seems to respond, pushing through the pain and the exhaustion, until the meters run out.

I’m not sure what it is, but something seems to have clicked inside us. He and I fight our way through the remaining pieces with gusto, heartily coaching each other along, keeping each other in check. I can almost feel the boundaries that had held us back earlier in the workout breaking down, walls tumbling, levees bursting.

Marco talks to me as if I’m his only lifeline, he talks to me as if letting myself take a light stroke would devastate him. And when he rows, he does so as if each thrust of power is something he forces out _just_ for me.

By the time the last piece comes around, I know that he and I are both exhausted.

I’m not ready for another one.

As he hops off the erg, I clamor on for my final piece, feeling bile threatening to rise in my throat as the time counts down my last 5 seconds of rest.

My push off the catch is weaker this time, compared to some of the other pieces, but as soon as Marco speaks – coughing around his words in breathless, tired pants – I’m ready to fight again.

I feel dizzy, and high, and full of strength that is trying to claw its way up through my flesh. Marco’s words force me up, and he pushes me through it all, even with his own creeping exhaustion threatening to take the last bits of air from his lungs. He pushes me, he drives me, and he makes the burn in my muscles simply fuel to a raging fire.

Everything hurts, and I’m ready to collapse, but Marco hasn’t left my side.

He talks to me. He tells me,

“You’ve never  _once_ let me down, Jean, don’t you dare start now! You’re my seven seat, aren’t you? Give me everything you got, let’s go.”

And in this moment, I would drown myself in ache and agony and fatigue if only to make him proud of me.

Marco is breathing so hard – not even allowing himself time to catch his own breath – forcing out words with every stroke I take. He’s exhausted from his piece just moments before – I know it – but he’s still here, still fighting at my side, still telling me that he’s not going anywhere, that he’s with me every step of the way.

And I want nothing more than to fight for him.

I will struggle and claw my way to the finish for him; tear my nails, rend my muscles, wage war against my own body for him.

And as my body threatens to give out beneath my exertions, I realize with a piercing, devastating clarity how far gone I am for him… And yet… I think I’ve always known.

“I’m here, Jean. Don’t you dare give up on me!”

And I won’t.

“That’s it! Every stroke, all the way to the finish, let’s count it down, power ten!”

Marco counts me down, each word a booming click of a metronome as the meters disappear and fade away. My body has nothing left to give, and yet it persists, pushing on and on as his voice fills me.

Until finally… it’s over.

The meters are gone, and I’m struggling to pull my feet from the foot straps. My fingers shake, and Marco undoes them for me as I stumble off to make room for him.

I can hardly breathe, my chest aches, my vision is blurry and tired. But as Marco straps himself in for the last piece, my brain quickly clicks back into gear.

Because he needs me now.

I cox him through his final piece, and he struggles: my  _god_ , does he struggle and fight, and I wonder if this is how I looked for him. I don’t know for sure if my words are helping him the way that his helped me, but I’m trying. I want to support him and help him and carry him through to the very end. I want him to put everything he has into his power. I want my words to press him forward, to fuel him.

I want him to fight for me. I want my name on every breath he heaves. I want him to think of me with each meter that ticks by, with each stroke that he takes.

And as I talk, as my voice booms to him as best it can around my breathlessness, I watch him as he responds in kind. I watch him nod with each instruction I give, I watch him huff and wheeze at every stroke. I watch the intensity build on his face when I tell him how  _good_ he’s doing, when I tell him that I’m not going anywhere, that I’m going to support him every step of the way.

I see the flurry of power that surges from his body. And I feel connected to him again.

And I wonder if he feels it too.

Eventually, his meters tick down to zero, and he releases the handle in a flurry of exhaustion. Marco pants and heaves, slouching forward over his legs, not even bothering to undo his foot straps. When he sits back up, I don’t hesitate for a second to wrap an arm around him, palm pressed flat against his chest. He’s drenched in sweat, but so am I, and I can’t be bothered to care. He leans back against me, body angled and slumped haphazardly against me, coughing and winded, one hand lifting up to grip my forearm with what remaining strength he has.

“Great job, Marco…  _Great_ fucking job…” I mumble, still not fully recovered from my own piece a couple minutes prior.

Marco doesn’t respond, but nods, squeezing my forearm a bit to acknowledge my words. Vaguely, I notice the rest of the room finishing off their pieces as well. Reiner and Bertholdt had finished before Marco and me, and the two of them are posed much like Marco and myself. Reiner’s arm wrapped tight around Bertholdt, a big smile on both their faces, the blond leaving kisses against Bertholdt’s sweating forehead.

I decide not to think about the similarities too hard.

Steadily, I release my friend and he leans forward to undo his foot straps. Once they’re off, he lowers himself to the floor and sits for a moment in silence. His breath is still heavy and ragged, and his body is trembling a bit, but I can tell he’s beginning to come down from it all.

As the room finishes up, I can’t help but notice the buzzing high I feel throughout my body. The pain has subsided finally, and all I’m left with is slight oxygen deprivation and a rush of endorphins. After another couple of moments, Levi gains the rooms attention, instructing all of us to rejoin him at the front. Our coxswains begin filtering around the room, clipboards in hand, pressing buttons on the ergs and jotting down scores for us all as Levi waits patiently for the rowers to settle around him.

I help ease Marco up to his feet and we trudge towards our coach, plopping down on the floor as the rest of the team does the same. We’re seated a bit close together, but Marco doesn’t seem to notice or care. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin atop them. His breath is slowly steadying out and he seems somewhat lost in thought as Levi begins to speak to us again.

“Good job, everyone. I know that was a hard workout… I know that it was tough and painful. But aside from the difficulty of it, tell me truthfully – by show of hands – how many of you enjoyed today’s workout?”

There’s a moment of hesitation in the room before people steadily begin to raise their hands. Marco and I both raise ours, and as we glance around, I see that almost everyone else’s hands are raised as well.

“Good, hands down. By show of hands, how many of you feel that you better understand the person you were paired with today?”

This time, Marco doesn’t even hesitate; his hand shoots straight up, followed almost immediately by my own.

“How many of you feel like your partner better understands  _you_ ?”

I keep my hand raised high, as does Marco, and with his head still rested atop his knees, he turns for a moment and glances at me. I meet his small smile with one of my own.

“And finally, how many of you… feel ready to put yourselves out on the line for the person you were paired with?”

I haven’t broken my gaze with Marco, and neither of our hands fall. With our limbs extended up high, I glance back up at Levi. His calm, cool eyes are glancing over the room full of raised hands, and he smiles ever so slightly.

“Heh. Excellent. Alright, you can put your hands down.” The room lowers their arms steadily, as Levi begins to move back and forth a bit in front of us. “That’s what today was about, ladies and gentlemen. Hanji and I… We can teach you how to row… We can teach you the ins and outs of rowing and training theory… We can give you workouts that will make you into Olympians. We can make you better, stronger, faster rowers. But at the end of the day, it’s on  _you_ – each and every one of you – to understand yourselves and to understand your teammates as rowers. It’s on  _you_ to understand the things that drive and motivate the people you row with.”

Hanji quickly joins Levi at the front.

“I know you hear all the time that rowing is a team sport,” Hanji starts off, gesturing to the room as a whole, “But it’s so much more than that. Rowing is the fundamental understanding that your boat is made of 9 different people with 9 different motivations that are all working towards the same goal. And once you come to grasp the things that push and drive your boatmates, you can be unstoppable.”

“Great work today, everyone. Go rest up. Tomorrow the weather is supposed to be clear, so we’ll hopefully be out on the water. And then next week we’ll be tapering for the race.”

“Hands in!” Hanji shouts excitedly.

We all slowly push ourselves up on our shaking legs and huddling together in a big circle, and I don’t even think twice about standing close against Marco.

Armin leads the hands in, as he usually does.

“Titans on three, one, two, three,”

“ **TITANS!** ” the group booms in unison.

Marco and I steadily extract ourselves as our teammates begin to do the same. We move to put our ergs up, before we all begin to head back to the dorms.

Reiner, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha are quickly by mine and Marco’s sides as we trudge along the fields. We all talk and laugh, complaining about what a hard workout it was, while simultaneously praising it for being… kind of… fun.

And I feel happy… I feel at ease for the first time in a long while.

**::**

The next week honestly  _flies_ by… It passes much more quickly than I had hoped or expected. We actually manage to get back on the water by Friday, and we spend the next week tapering in preparation for our final race of the season.

We’re all more than a little stressed though – it’s simply a consequence of this time of year. As the semester and the season wind down, we’re all met with not only a huge regatta, but also bombarded by finals, projects, and essays to be completed. Outside of neuro and crew, I don’t get to hang out with Marco much. He seems to spend most of his time holed up in his room or in the library, while most of my time is wasted in the studio. Occasionally, I paint, but mostly I’m working on Orgo or CogPsych.

I don’t study neuro without Marco, though. It just doesn’t feel right.

Every now and then, I take a glance at my phone, hoping that perhaps Marco will invite me to join him as he works. But most of the texts I receive are just him checking in on me, make sure that I haven’t succumbed to end-of-semester nerves. Still… it’s nice to see he thinks of me.

On Friday, we have a very short crew practice – mostly running through timing and technique drills – all in preparation for the race the next day.

In all honesty, despite an entire semester’s worth of preparation, I can’t say for sure that I feel 100% ready for the race. The Trost District Invitational is one of the most intense races of the season. It isn’t a huge regatta, like the Head of the Rose is in the fall, but it’s comprised of only the top, most elite teams available.

It’s an intense race, full of intense competition, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get nervous before it every single year. Since I’d been rowing in the mixed 8+, the best we’d ever placed was 2 nd at this race and I can already feel my nerves bundling up in my stomach. The only nice thing about the Trost Invitational is that – much like Head of the Rose – due to the race site’s close proximity to T.U., we’ve always been permitted to launch and re-dock at our own dock rather than the race site’s dock. It’s one less stressor, and it’s nice not having to worry about de-rigging and re-rigging our boats, traveling, or even just dealing with the race site’s insane docking procedures. But docking is only a small part of the stress that accompanies this regatta, and that alone isn’t enough to calm my frantic nerves.

On Friday after practice, I spend most of the late afternoon with my suitemates, most of us either studying or relaxing a bit, all of us attempting to prepare for the race the following day. Marco had mentioned that he had an essay to work on, and so I do my best just to relax with my friends. But as the hours tick by, I decide I’ve had enough. My nerves aren’t easing, and all sitting here is doing is making it so I worry even more. I check my texts, just to see if Marco has messaged me, but he hasn’t. And so, without hesitation, I open up a new message and send it to him quickly.

_5:08 pm_  
**To: Marco Bodt  
** _How you doing, dude?_

His reply is almost instantaneous.

_5:09 pm_  
**From: Marco Bodt  
** _D’:_

_5:10 pm_  
**To: Marco Bodt  
** _That bad? Need me to come rescue you? Honestly you can’t be getting_ that _much work done._

_5:11 pm_  
**From: Marco Bodt  
**_Deliver me from hell_

I smile to myself and stand from the couch, moving to my room to change from my sweats to a pair of jeans, typing out another quick reply.

_5:13 pm_  
**To: Marco Bodt  
** _You in your room? Let’s get dinner or something at least._

_5:14 pm_  
**From: Marco Bodt  
** _Library, meet you by the main entrance?_

_5:15 pm_  
**To: Marco Bodt  
** _OMW_

When we meet, I notice quickly that Marco looks very tired. We head to the cafeteria and eat in relative quiet, mostly talking about whatever he’s studying for, before finally shifting our conversation to the upcoming race. I tell him a little bit about what it’s usually like: I tell him to expect it to be kind of crazy, there are a lot of events and a lot of elite teams. I tell him the best way to mentally prepare is just to expect a little bit of chaos throughout the day. He nods with each thing I tell him, until we fall into a gentle silence.

Marco pushes his food around a bit on his plate before setting down his fork and propping his elbow up on the table. He cradles his head in his hand and looks at me.

“You nervous?” He asks me quietly.

I shrug.

“Yeah, a little… But I’m always nervous before the Invitational.”

“Why?”

“Eh, it’s just intense, that’s all. The competition’s tough and so far, our boat hasn’t placed higher than 2 nd … Maybe that’ll change this year, though.”

Marco nods, once again beginning to fiddle around with the remaining food on his plate.

“Why? Are  _you_ nervous?”

“…Yeah…” He responds frankly, his voice low. His eyes avoid my gaze ever so slightly.

“Why?”

“I dunno…” Marco mumbles with a slight shrug, dropping his head from his hand, eyes fixed down on his plate still. “Kinda just… feels like the first race all over again. Last race of the season… First time for me rowing the Trost Invitational… Jinae didn’t exactly get invited to it, you know? And I dunno, I’m just… I don’t want to let you down, Jean…”

There’s a moment when I pause, realizing quickly that he hasn’t said “I don’t want to let you  _guys_ down”… He said “I don’t want to let  _you_ down.”

I quirk my head a little, a soft smile creeping onto my lips. I reach across the table to pat his arm, offering up a modicum of reassurance. 

“You won’t. You haven’t yet… Plus, I’ll be right behind you the whole time… Literally.”

Marco smirks at that, letting out a brief chuckle.

“So long as you don’t abandon ship, I think we’ll be alright.” He says to me, his tone more lighthearted now.

“Damnit, man, that was my whole plan. Foiled again.” I jibe, already standing and gathering up my plate.

With our stuff cleaned up, we head out of the cafeteria together, walking in silence a bit back towards the dorms. As we approach them, I ask him idly what his plans are for the rest of the night.

“I’m probably just going to relax a bit and go to bed… Want to be rested.” Marco tells me. I nod knowingly.

“Yeah, same here.”

“You wanna meet up in the morning? Get some breakfast before we head to the boathouse?” Marco asks me softly.

“Sounds good, but Hanji always brings us breakfast for the Invitational. She’s a saint.” I pause for a moment, “But I would like to meet up and head down together.”

Marco smiles at that and nods. I return the gesture in silence and start to turn and head towards the entrance of my building, but a gentle grip on my arm stops me. I turn back to face Marco, who’s staring at me with a gentle expression on his face.

“What?” I ask him, suddenly feeling… very nervous and self-conscious. 

Marco exhales gently.

“Just… thank you…”

“For what?” I ask, somewhat confused by his statement.

“I dunno, just… everything, I guess?”

Marco takes a brief step closer to me, and lifts his hand to rub along the back of his neck. I can’t help but notice that he’s almost avoiding my gaze… It’s so uncharacteristic of him that it catches me somewhat off guard. He looks nervous and hesitant, and Marco’s  _never_ that way, and I’m honestly a bit confused.

“Look uh… I know we got kind of a rough start… and we had some… kinda rough patches in between, too… But… I mean it when I say that you’re my best friend, Jean. I was really nervous before I came here. You know, Jinae’s a small town… J.C. is a small school… Coming here was really scary. But I’ve honestly never felt so at home and I think a lot of that is because of you… I’m just. I’m glad I met you.”

I don’t say anything for a moment, my brain still attempting to process the words that Marco has said. I’m nervous again, my stomach fluttering, and I’m forcing myself to remember that we’re friends… we’re  _friends_ ... we are  _friends._ Just friends.

And I  _hate_ some of the shit I’ve gone through because of Marco. I  _hate_ the way I feel about him. I hate that I can never just allow myself to have a close friendship without becoming far too attached. I hate that I couldn’t protect myself enough from him.

But I adore this man. And if I could, I don’t know that I would go back to before I knew him. I don’t know that I would go back. Because…

“I’m glad I met you too…”

And I am. I’m glad I met him.

I’m glad he pushed me… I’m glad he persisted even though I treated him with such disdain… I’m glad he ever wanted to be my friend in the first place.

Marco smiles at me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and rubs ever so gently with his thumb. It’s a kind, friendly gesture, and there’s a look on his face that tells me… he’s happy.

I constantly question myself… I constantly wonder if I’m ever going to be able to give him the quality of friendship that he deserves. Because I know that my vision and my actions are clouded by the way I feel for him, and perhaps that isn’t fair to him. But Marco still smiles at me. He smiles a happy smile that tells me he’s comfortable and content with the way things are.

And so, with my insides twisted up, with my thoughts racing, with so many things I want to say threatening to spill from my lips, I force myself to smile back at him. With another pat on my arm, he removes his hand and takes a step back, but not yet turning away from me.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Jean.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

And with that, he turns and heads into his dorm without another glance back.

I don’t move for a moment, standing silently out on the sidewalk, my eyes still fixed on the closed door of Marco’s building. I don’t know why exactly I don’t move, and I don’t know why I feel such a mixture of happiness and sadness welling up inside me.

With a gentle sigh, I turn towards my building – standing stark and opposite of Marco’s – and head inside.

**::**

I’m up early the next morning. I feel surprisingly rested and ready to move, despite the consistent ball of nerves that has housed itself within my gut. I dress quickly, sliding my unisuit on and covering up with a pair of sweatpants. I rummage through my shirts for a moment, before finally grabbing the shirt that Marco had bought me. With a small smile, I pull it on and straighten it out. Quickly grabbing my favorite pair of socks and a spare change of clothes and stuffing them in my duffel bag, I slip on my flip flops and open up my phone to see if Marco’s up.

It’s just barely 6:30 and since our team’s earliest race isn’t until 10 am, coach doesn’t want us at the boathouse until 8 am. So it’s possible that Marco isn’t up yet. Through the walls, I can hear my suitemates’ alarms beginning to sound off, followed quickly by the sound of movement in the kitchenette and the noise of the shower running. I’m almost willing to bet that it’s Bertholdt showering. Why that boy feels it necessary to shower right before getting utterly disgusting at a regatta is beyond me, but whatever, to each his own.

I don’t text Marco just yet, figuring he’ll text me once he’s up and moving. Instead, I head into the common area to get a Gatorade. I plop down on the couch, downing a bit of the drink and sitting in silence as my friends begin to flutter around me, mumbling idle good mornings and heys as they move.

It doesn’t take long before my phone buzzes with a fresh text from Marco, asking if I’m up yet. I tell him yes and that I’m already ready, whenever he wants to meet. Within five minutes, he texts me back to tell me he’ll meet me outside. I stand quickly from the couch, checking my pockets for my things and slinging my bag over my shoulder, before idly shouting out through my suite that I’ll see everyone down at the boathouse.

Marco is already outside and waiting for me, and I probably should have expected that. He’s got a pair of sweats tugged over his unisuit and a small backpack slung over one of his shoulders. There’s a certain look that lights up his face when he sees me and it takes a lot of focused effort on my part to not beam right back at him. I trot up to him and he bumps my shoulder, asking idly if I’m set to walk down to the boathouse.

We’re still fairly early, and so we take our time, bodies moving slowly in the early morning light as we move across campus towards the waterfront. Marco and I don’t really talk much aside from the normal pleasantries… He asks how I slept, I tell him I slept fine, he tells me that he’s hungry and I readily agree. But mostly, it’s silence between us, and it’s comfortable… Once in a while, his arm brushes ever so gently against my own – bare skin against bare skin, just the faintest of tickles, and I can’t help the way my skin prickles with little goosebumps at his touch.

I wish sometimes that these quiet moments between us weren’t so easy… or so comfortable… I wish sometimes that it wasn’t so easy to simply walk beside him and enjoy his presence.

But it is what it is.

Marco walks without much purpose, feet shuffling through the dew on the athletic fields. His movements seem calm and idle and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it didn’t feel like he had a care in the world. But as we begin close in on the boathouse, I just barely notice his shoulders start to tense a little. His steps get a little heavier, a little more focused with each stride, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

He’s nervous, though… I can feel it. And I wish so much that I could simply reach over and take hold of his hand. I wish I could squeeze his fingers between my own, kiss his cheeks, and tell him that everything is going to be okay. But that isn’t our life, and that isn’t my role, and so, instead, I do nothing. I walk beside him in silence and wonder if there were ever a way I could abet his nervousness.

It’s almost 8 am once we reach the boathouse, but even then, we’re a little early. Levi and Hanji are already there, Levi unlocking the door to the upstairs as Hanji struggles to drag in several bags of what I _hope_ is breakfast. With a quirk of my lips, I gesture to Marco for us to head up.

Once the rest of our teammates arrive, we all go through the typical pre-race duties. We double check the rigging on all the boats, we make sure all the oars are set to go, and each boat has a brief discussion with the coaches about their race. But even after all that, and even after grabbing some food from the buffet of things Hanji has brought for us, the mixed 8 still has a while before we have to launch. We see off the novice girls for their race, wishing them well as they launch and head for the start of the race. As I stand on the dock, watching the ladies row away, the rest of my team steadily filtering back up to the boathouse, Marco suddenly appears by my side.

“We’ve got a few hours,” he starts, “wanna show me around the race site?”

I chuckle quietly and nod.

“Sure, come on.” 

The two of us head back up the ramp steadily back towards the boathouse. As we reach the top, I pat my pockets and make sure I’ve got my phone and my wallet, just in case. Marco tells me to wait for just a second before he trots away and darts up the stairs of the boathouse to the erg room.

It’s only a moment before Marco comes bounding back down the stairs, this time with his camera looped around his neck.

“Okay, I’m good!” He tells me as he returns to my side, “I told Reiner where we’re going, he said he’ll text one of us if we need to head back or something.”

“Cool,” I mumble, reaching out and grabbing ahold of the camera, gently tugging it away from where it rests against Marco’s chest. “You going tourist on me, Freckles?”

Marco smirks and snatches it back with a roll of his eyes.

“No, thank you very much. I've got an art final too, remember?”

“Oh, of course.” I jibe at him, before gesturing him to follow me.

**::**

The race site is a little less than a mile away from campus, so it only takes us 15 or so minutes to get there. The walk is nice, and I can tell that some of Marco’s nerves seem to have settled. He’s laughing a bit more and his shoulders are more relaxed, and there’s that same big smile on his face that I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing.

The actual site is bustling, even in the early hours of the morning, though it’s mostly crews getting their things ready, running, or launching their boats. We pass by the rows of trailers and crew tents, Marco snapping a few photos of the waterfront and the docks as we move towards the retail tents. Only a few of the retailers are actually open, many of them still setting up, but Marco and I look anyway. I like to look at the t-shirts, mostly because they’re almost always hilarious, but Marco keeps stopping to dig through the bins of funky spandex, yanking out all sorts of loud and flamboyant colors that would make Reiner jealous. Eventually, I have to drag him away to save him from shelling out the cash to buy a pair of lime green, glittery shorts.

Finally, as we walk along, we reach the Market Street Bridge, the landmark that stands at the tail end of the site. As we approach, Marco begins to beeline, veering us ever closer to the waterfront, until finally we’re standing at the edge of the rocks that line the banks and encompass the abutment. The first race should be coming down the course to our right any time now, but for now, the water is quiet and still, just past the reach of the boats arriving and docking and launching. I move a little closer to the water, staring out across the glassy surface that reflects the warm, yellow morning light and I can’t help but smile.

This semester has been hard, filled with ups and downs, fights and anxiety, wins and losses. And yet, here Marco and I stand: a pair, a team,  _friends_ . And of course, I want more, but I could never let him go. I wanted so badly to be angry with him, I had hoped that if I could simply keep my distance, I would be safe. But distance wasn’t good enough, and closeness has been hard. But now that I’ve known him, and understood him, I wouldn’t be able to keep the distance if I tried.

He’s not my lover. He’s not my boyfriend. But he’s my friend… my best friend. And it’s just as important.

It’s only at the sound of a couple of clicks that I realize I’ve been lost in my thoughts, staring out idly along the water. At the sounds, I crane my head back further to glance at Marco standing slightly behind and to the right of me.

He’s got his camera plastered against his face, and the clicks I’m hearing are the distinct sounds of shutters firing and capturing. I shut my eyes and smile, quickly turning my head back away.

“What are you  _doing_ ?” I ask him with a flustered voice, daring one more glance back at him.

Marco lowers the camera and shrugs.

“Hey, man, I got a final, remember?”

I shake my head.

“Well you aren’t gunna get an A using my ugly mug.”

Marco rolls his eyes and brings his camera back up to his face.

“Yeah, I’ll get an A+…” He mumbles, clicking the shutter once more. He pauses for another second, before hesitantly asking “You want me to stop? I will if you want.”

I feel my face flush a bit and drag my hand along it in an effort to hide my color, but I don’t ask him to stop. Instead, I tell him it’s fine. Marco snaps a couple more shots before pulling his eye away from the viewfinder, grinning at me as I let out an embarrassed laugh.

“You done?” I mumble.

“Heh, yeah.” Marco glances down at his watch, “We should probably head back soon.”

I nod and agree, moving to follow my friend as he takes a few steps away from the waterfront. We make our way back through the bustle, and Marco makes sure to stay close by my side, and I can’t say I’m entirely unhappy about it either. Once we’re past the throngs of crews and spectators, Marco falls into stride with me.

“I’ll make sure to show you those pictures before I turn them in, I promise. If you don’t like them, I won’t use them or anything, you know that, right?”

I nod understandingly.

“I know. Thank you.”

Marco gives my shoulder an easy bump with his own and I shoot him a quiet smirk. And that’s that.

**::**

We’re back at the boathouse with an hour still until we have to launch, so Marco and I opt to settle down beside our friends and relax. We laugh and cut up, and I make a point to tell Reiner about the lime green spandex Marco almost bought, to which Reiner groans and says he needs to get over to the site and buy some too. But before I know it, Levi is calling for our boat to get our oars and get ready to launch. Marco visibly tenses up a bit and I make a point to squeeze his shoulders softly before we stand and begin to strip down to our unisuits.

As our boat begins to filter out of the boathouse and down to the boat bays, I once more garner Marco’s attention. I grab his shoulder and make him to turn to look at me. He bites his lip – nervous, worried like I’ve never seen him before – and I do my best to soften my expression.

“You’re going to do great, okay?” I tell him softly, “I’m gunna be right behind you. I’m your seven seat, remember?”

Marco grins a little and takes a deep, calming inhale through his nose and nods. He grasps my arms and gives me a squeeze and nods once more, steadying himself before he speaks.

“You’re right. Come on, let’s go kick some ass, bud.”

“Damn right.”

**::**

I hadn’t been nervous until just now. I hadn’t been nervous when I reassured Marco at the boathouse, I hadn’t been nervous as we’d rowed up to the start, but now as we sit here lined side by side with five other teams my own stomach has started to flutter and twitch. Armin’s hand is still up and we are steadily adjusting our trajectory. We’ve already passed back the power and now all we can do is sit ready, our blades buried in the water, ready for our coxswain to lower his hand, and ready for the flag to drop.

I haven’t been this nervous for a race in a long while, and I can’t fully explain the reasons why. Maybe it’s because it’s the last race this season that I’ll have with Marco. Maybe it’s because it’s our boat’s first time at this race with Marco as our stroke. Maybe I just am frightened that I won’t live up to what Marco deserves in a seven seat. Maybe I’m afraid of letting him down.

I can feel my arms beginning to tremble, my stomach fluttering as Armin assuredly drops his hand. Marco spares one last glance back at me, shooting me a nod, before turning his attention to the official holding the flag.

As the checkered flag drops, all eight of us push off in an instant. Five strokes into the race, and suddenly all my fears have disappeared. My nerves have settled, transferring their manic, electric energy out into my muscles as I follow my stroke seat with precision and determination. The hesitancy, the nervousness, the anxiety, it’s all gone as we fall into a rhythm I have come to love.

The oars’ click, the power in our bodies, the thrust of the boat… it’s like poetry, like music, and I can’t get enough of it. It’s pain, it’s strength, it’s a fucking  _fight_ , and I love it. I love this war we wage against our own bodies, demanding more, demanding we go further and faster and harder than the other teams.

I watch Marco’s back with diligence, pouring everything I have into my oar handle as he does the same. Every flex and strain of his body is enough to drive me forward, eking out as much strength as I possibly can. Armin is talking to us, coxing us along, and I’m pretty sure we’re over half-way. And even though I should be listening to Armin, all I can hear is Marco’s voice in my head. 

We’ve been head to head with the Shiganshina boat for the entirety of the race so far, and every stroke is a vicious struggle to pull us forward and ahead. They push back with gusto, unwilling to yield to us without a fight. If it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they’ll get. Marco’s breath is heaving in time with my own, and I feel as if our entire boat is clawing our way ahead, fighting tooth and nail for first place.

Armin is counting out a power ten, and we bite alongside his words with savagery. And even though it’s Armin shouting and counting, it is _Marco’s_ voice that rings out in my head. I hear him as he counted me down on the ergs, I hear him telling me to not give up, I hear his desperate, hardened voice telling me not to let him down.

I hear him telling me that he’s with me… Every step of the way.

And I will give him absolutely everything I have. I will give him everything just to make him proud, to make him happy.

_“You’ve never once let me down, Jean, don’t you dare start now! You’re my seven seat, aren’t you?”_

His voice rings in my head as if he were my only lifeline. I cannot – absolutely cannot – let him down. He’s fighting for me and I’m not willing to give up on him.

We push and we pull and we scramble our way through each and every meter. We’ve left four of the other boats in the dust – so to speak – but Shiganshina still won’t let up. We’re steadily approaching the finish line and at this point I’m so exhausted I can no longer tell which one of us is winning.

Everything is a blur, except for Marco. Like a beacon in front of me, he stands out clear as day – glowing and bright, pushing hard just like me – and I wonder if he’s thinking of me. I wonder if he’s thinking of the words I said to him when I coached him. I wonder if he fights for me in all the same ways I fight for him.

I have to believe that he does.

Before I know it, the sound of the air horn marks our crossing the finish line, and the entire boat slows to a paddle. We row gently, barely moving, bodies shaking and exhausted as we inch away from the finish line.

The sounds in my ears are muffled, Armin’s voice a buzz as he tells us to keep paddling but not to waynuff. Even now, all I can see is Marco. As he paddles, he occasionally tosses a glance at me over his shoulder, muttering something to me that I can’t understand. But I still smile at him – a dizzy, bleary smile because I don’t know how else to respond.

Did I make you proud, Marco? Tell me that I did. Tell me that you threw everything out on the line for me like I did for you. I have nothing left to give, tell me it was good.

I follow Armin’s commands with a sort of mindless automacy, until suddenly the boat is turned and we’re rowing back towards our dock, away from the race site. We filter through the pairs, each one taking a break. When it’s Bert and Reiner’s turn to rest, I hear the blonde breathily yell up to Armin.

“Armin, did we win??”

Armin shrugs and speaks softly into his microphone.

“I’m… I’m honestly not sure. Looked like a dead-tie to me… Judges are probably going to have to review it and see who won…”  Armin pauses for a moment before addressing me and Marco. “In two, Marco and Jean out, Bert and Reiner back in, one… two.”

And with his words, Marco and I drop out, catching our much deserved rest. I’m still heaving, breath unsteady, still not fully able to make words. Marco makes a point to turn around in his seat a bit and reach back to me. He pats my arm tenderly before speaking lowly.

“Great job, man…  _Great_ job…”

His voice is soft and private, and even though I’m sure the others could hear him, it feels as if his words were meant solely for my ears. When I do reply, I speak back to him in the same manner. It’s private, it’s quiet, it’s for us, and even surrounded by seven other people, I feel for a moment that it’s just Marco and me sitting here.

“Thank you… You were… so good.” I huff out to him, reaching forward and patting his back.

In the back of my mind, I think back to our first race. I think back to the way Marco had collapsed back against my feet, how I had rested my forehead against his, his hand on my nape, mine on his chest… and I wish now that he might do the same thing. But he doesn’t. And before I know it, Armin is calling for Marco and I to row again. As we approach the dock, he drops the ladies in the bow out, the stern alone coasting us into the dock with ease.

We go through our docking routine – we hoist up the boat and put it away, along with the oars, and huddle up, ready for our meeting with the coaches. Hanji is notably absent as Levi joins us. He tells us the usual platitudes – that we fought really hard and rowed really well – as well as bringing up a few things he thinks we could have improved just based on what he saw from the banks. He tells us that he  _thinks_ we may have taken first, but that he can’t be sure; he shrugs and speaks flatly, telling us it will likely come down to the judges making the call.

Hanji appears suddenly in the middle of our meeting, bounding over to tell us all that the judges have to review the times and the photos from the finish of our race to determine whether our boat or Shiganshina actually took first place. We’re instructed to just hang around for a while and wait, noting that they’ll probably announce it at the site after a while.

Marco visibly deflates beside me, and I can’t say that I blame him. I know exactly how he feels. After such a grueling race, I know that I want to know  _now_ . I want to know if the fight we gave was good enough, if we pushed ourselves hard enough, and if in the end we came out on top… and I know that Marco wants the same.

Levi releases us, telling us he’d let us know as soon as he knew. With a curt nod at our group, he retreats, heading back into the boat bay and towards the back office. With a groan, Sasha stretches out dramatically, taking a brief sniff of herself as she does so.

“Ugh,” the brunette grunts, “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m disgusting. I’m getting a shower.”

Bertholdt is the first to chime in.

“I fuckin’ hear that.”

Bertholdt and Reiner waste no time heading for the men’s locker room, while Sasha makes a quick beeline towards the women’s. With a laugh and a shrug, I mumble how I should probably get rinsed off too. I’m sure I can’t smell great. 

“My uni fucking reeks…” Marco says as he trots after me, following me briskly towards the locker rooms behind my teammates.

Once in my stall, I shower quickly, mostly trying my best not to think about the naked man in the stall next to mine. Because of willpower alone, I’m showered, changed, and out of the locker room before any of my friends, mumbling something about how I’d meet them upstairs.

It’s only a few minutes before I’m met with my freshly showered teammates up in the erg room. There’s some food left over – a few bagels and fruits from breakfast that I’m steadily munching on as the guys and girls steadily rejoin me. Marco is the first to sit down at my side, leaning across me and snagging a couple of grapes from my plate without a word.

I don’t protest, watching him as he crunches the small fruits hungrily.

It feels intimate… like everything he does. It’s familiar and without boundaries, as if he and I have known each other for years, as if we were never meant to have anything apart from each other. And so, when he does it again, I do nothing but smile and offer him the rest of what’s left on my plate.

We all just sit for a while – idle conversation spanning between us as we allow ourselves to recover. It’s a good while before we hear anything, but alas, the next time Levi shows his face is not to tell us of our results, but rather to demand that we help launch the quad and the novice men’s boats.

It’s only with a chorus of groans and moans that we all stand and do as we’re told. We see off our teammates as they leave for their events, and return back to the boathouse to wait. And wait. And wait. Because there isn’t much else we can do at this point.

Results don’t typically take this long to post. The usual time frame is anywhere between 15-35 minutes following the race. But given how close we were with Shiganshina at the finish, it’s probably going to be a photo-finish, so to speak. Hell, maybe Shiganshina was closer to us than I’d originally thought… I knew we had been neck and neck at the finish, but I could have sworn that our boat had been a fraction ahead of them… But then again, by the end of the race, I had regressed to a state of blurred automacy – filled with nothing but raw emotion, muscle memory, pain, and constant, swirling thoughts of Marco… So who am I to say where exactly we wound up at the finish?

Marco spends most of his time sprawled out at my side on the floor. While I have forced myself to sit, he seems content to lie back and relax. He looks exhausted, and frankly, so am I. It’s late afternoon now, and all of us have been up for just a little too long at this point… and after a race as grueling and exhausting as ours, it’s no wonder we aren’t all just passed out on the floor. Honestly, the only reason I’m even sitting upright is because I know that if I were to lie down like Marco, I’d be out like a light within a minute.

I’m not entirely sure if Marco is actually asleep or simply resting his eyes, but either way, he doesn’t seem to care much for my personal space. Curled up on the floor, he doesn’t seem to mind plastering his body up close to mine.I spare a glance down at him. His eyes are closed and, hell, maybe he  _is_ asleep… It’s hard to tell though.

There’s a part of me that yearns to simply reach down and drag my fingers through his hair. It’s that same part of me that had so desperately wished to take his hand as we rode back from the first regatta together. It’s that same desperate feeling inside me that tells me I need to keep him close to me. But I can’t. I don’t even dare, especially not in front of my boatmates. It’s too intimate a gesture, even for Marco, and I know it is not a space I’m readily welcomed in… Instead, I simply watch him for a second longer, thinking of the night when he’d slept by my side and wishing silently that I could perhaps rewind things and pause right at that moment.

With a small huff, I force myself to look away. I need to stop thinking like this. I constantly tell myself that I can make peace with simply being his friend, because at the end of the day, I treasure this man more than I care to freely admit… And yet…part of me just can’t let it go.

I’m more than a little grateful when Levi finally enters the erg room and regains our attention, forcing me out of my thoughts. He moves towards us, his cell phone cradled gently in one hand, and gestures for us to gather around him. Briskly, I reach over and shake Marco’s shoulder; he rouses with a start but quickly sits up and moves to stand with me and the rest of the boat as we gather around our coach.

As we close in, I quickly realize that he isn’t just holding his phone out for shits and giggles, but rather that there is a call he has on speaker for us to hear. Hanji’s voice quickly sounds off through the speakers.

“Hey guys and gals!” She booms, “No results yet, but it looks like they’re done deliberating… Should post it in just a sec…”

My teammates and I glance at each other nervously. From the cell phone, I can just vaguely hear the sounds of the crowd in the background, people talking in muffled voices, followed briefly by an unintelligible voice that speaks loudly and echoes, as if through a microphone. My guess is that it’s an official making some sort of announcement, but lord knows I can’t make it out.

“They’re posting it now! One sec, just… gotta.. – excuse me, ‘scuse, ‘scuse me – ” Hanji mumbles, clearly shuffling past a few people as she speaks to us – “just gotta wedge… up to the board… Ready guys??”

My stomach flutters again, my nerves suddenly firing and I can’t help the small little tremor that courses its way through my hands. I haven’t been this nervous about a race’s results in god knows how long and I desperately wish that my anxiety would simply squash itself. In the tense couple of seconds, I just barely notice Marco taking hold of my left hand.

I almost jump at the contact, but his grip is sure and gentle. I toss my head up, my gaze landing on him, and I’m about to ask what he’s doing, but I stop myself when I notice that to his left, he’s also got a firm hold on Sasha’s hand.  Almost as soon as I notice their clasped hands, Armin reaches out and takes hold of my other hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

Oh.

Okay.

This is… this is a boat thing… of course it is. We do this all the time… We hold onto each other when nervous, when awaiting results, we hold onto each other for support… We’re supporting each other now as we anxiously wait for the results of a regatta we’ve never placed first in… This isn’t  _Marco_ holding my hand… This is… teammates holding onto each other… Like normal teammates do.

With a thick gulp, I fling my gaze back to Levi, trying like hell to hide the way my face has fallen at the heavy, sinking weight that has just sprung in my chest.

“Get on with it, Hanj…” Levi grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, there are a lot of other events, I’m looking.” There’s a minor pause, followed by her soft mumblings, “Checking… checking…”. At this point, she’s talking more to herself than to us. Ever so slightly, I feel Marco’s fingers give my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and my stomach drops once again. I don’t squeeze back, trying my best to keep my grip as loose as possible.

This is too much….

Just keep it together…

“Trost.. by 0.2 seconds, a freaking _photo_ finish, YOU GOT FIRST!” Hanji shouts loudly into the phone, her enthusiasm unmasked and unrestrained.

At the sound of the word “FIRST”, my boat erupts: happy, proud, and unbridled cheers of victory as we quickly congratulate each other. Marco is the first on me. He hugs me hard but briefly – much too quickly for me to even react to it – before turning to scoop Sasha up into a hug as well.

Released from his grip, I suddenly feel… off. I try to plaster on a smile, because I’m happy, I truly am. I’m ecstatic about the results. I’m astounded and proud of us, proud of all of us, because this is a milestone for us.

And yet… following Marco’s touches, I can’t help but feel a small, creeping emptiness slithering its way into my belly. What had been nothing but a ball of frazzled nerves is steadily becoming a hard weight, sitting hard inside my stomach and weighing me down.

But I smile, and I cheer along with the rest of them, because what else am I supposed to do?

Amongst the happiness and noise, Reiner is suddenly swooping to my side, scooping Armin up and tossing him across his shoulder. Armin squirms and grunts, still laughing as he does so, as Reiner’s voice booms out.

“You know what this means, Foxy Coxy!” Reiner shouts.

Without waiting another second, Reiner heads for the exit of the erg room, still carrying Armin over his shoulder as he heads towards the stairs.

“Oh, no, no! Reiner, no!” Armin wails.

“Oh, yes, yes!” Reiner retorts, striding down the stairs quickly with our coxswain over his shoulder and gesturing for the rest of us to follow. “You’re getting dunked, little man!”

We all follow Reiner as he trots down the ramp toward the water, Armin protesting but never losing his giant grin as they go.

And okay, yeah, as we reach the bottom of the ramp and stand together on the docks, maybe the heavy weight in my stomach has lightened a bit… And maybe my smile and laughter is feeling a bit more genuine, because honestly, it’s hard not to get a little bit of joy out of this ritual.

Once steadied on the dock, Reiner lowers Armin off of his shoulder but doesn’t let him go, shouting out to the rest of us that he needs someone to grab the blond’s feet and to take his phone off him.

“I got his phone!” Ymir shouts, darting into Armin’s hoodie and grabbing the device so that it doesn’t get ruined.

“I’m on feet!” Mikasa eagerly volunteers, quickly joining Reiner at the edge of the dock as he maneuvers Armin into position.

Reiner scoops his arms up under Armin’s armpits as Mikasa takes a firm hold on his feet, and from my angle, it looks as if Armin has simply given up, accepting the watery fate to which he has been assigned. Reiner and Mikasa pause for a moment, before gaining a bit of momentum, swinging Armin like a human hammock.

“Count of three!” Bertholdt calls out.

Marco is quick to move to my side, draping his arm over my shoulders and tugging me in close to him as we count off as a group.

“One! Two! Three!!”

And with that, they launch him, sending our poor coxswain barreling over into the water.

The last words I actually hear before Armin hits the water are a frantic shout of  _“I hate you gu-“._ But the rest is lost as his body splashes down into the river.

Marco and the rest hoot and holler, cheering as Armin splashes into the water and reemerges with a gasp. And I have to admit that even I’m caught up a bit in the victorious shenanigans, letting myself revel in our win, letting myself forget – if only for a moment – what it felt like for Marco to hold my hand.

But I’m not too caught up that I miss the way Marco is suddenly and unexpectedly squeezing me tight under his arm. I’m not too caught up that I miss the large, melodramatic, and goofy kiss that he plants on my temple before releasing me and moving to the edge of the dock to help Armin up out of the water.

I’m pretty sure I haven’t moved. The others are moving; Armin’s shaking out his hair and splashing it on Marco, Reiner, and Mikasa… My teammates are all talking to each other, still laughing, still smiling, and yet I can’t even really hear what they’re saying. I feel… frozen and confused. The weight has slammed back down on me like an anvil and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

What was that? Why the _fuck_ did he do that? What  _was_ that? And what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to do nothing?

_Marco’s_ not doing anything. He’s acting totally normal, as if stupid temple kisses were a normal thing that friends and teammates did.

It obviously meant nothing.

It  _obviously_ was nothing. It’s was… it was overly-dramatic and silly and that’s all. Because that’s how Marco is. Look at him… He’s hugging almost everyone now – touching them and being affectionate. It’s what he does. It’s how he is. He always has to touch and be close. This is normal, and this is… this is okay. This is… this… is okay?

And yet I still can’t seem to make myself move.

When the others make their way back up the ramp to the docks, something in me tells me I have to follow them. But I fall behind, watching them as they go, but I follow nonetheless. Marco doesn’t seem to notice; he stays up at the head of the pack with Armin, talking to our soggy coxswain jovially, not a second glance tossed back to me. I move with the group as we make our way back to the boathouse, but as they begin to ascend the stairs I find that I can’t make myself follow them.

My head feels light and my chest fucking hurts. I’m confused, and I can feel the panic starting to rise up inside of me. My stomach is coilingup, twisting up in knots. My throat feels tight. I watch Marco – the first one to pass through the door of the erg room – but he doesn’t look back at me.

I need some space. I need to… I need to not be… _here_.

As the rest of my friends climb the stairwell ahead of me, slipping back inside the erg room, all I can think to do is to turn and run towards campus.

**::**

I don’t think as I jog across the campus, heading back towards my dorm. I don’t know why I’m running, I can’t even fully explain why I had to leave that very moment. A better man than me wouldn’t be this way, a better man than me would have simply laughed it off and fucking let it go. But not me. Instead, I apparently have to panic.

Levi’s going to have my ass when he notices I’m gone. But I can’t even begin to care. All I’m trying to do right now is process what happened ten minutes earlier.

I fumble into my suite, not even closing the door fully as I rush to my room. I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish by coming here… I don’t know exactly how running away was supposed to make things better. And I don’t know why I can’t just  _let this go_ . There are moments when I look at Marco and I think that no, it isn’t everything I want, but it’s good enough. Plenty of times lately, I’ve been able to look at him and think  _“yes, I want to be more, but you are perfect and wonderful and I am truly blessed to call you my friend.”_ And yet… and yet within an instant it all can change.

I’m pretty sure I’m pacing now – darting back and forth between my desk and my bed, unable to fully pay attention to my motions.

Who does Marco think he is? Why on earth would he think that was okay? That isn’t something that friends do with each other.

I stop my strides in an instant. Because I remember quickly all the times that Reiner has given me playful pecks on the cheek, or when Bertholdt has ruffled my hair tenderly, or even when I’ve tried to annoy Connie by planting big, wet smooches on his bald little head because I know it bothers him.

I sigh and stride slowly over to my bed, sitting down uneasily on the edge.

Of course it’s something that friends do– especially friends like Marco, who are already affectionate to begin with… Hell, it’s something  _I’ve_ done plenty of times to my own friends and never thought twice about it. The only reason I’m panicking now is because my thoughts are literally so clouded by Marco that I can hardly see an inch in front of my face to find some semblance of rationality and calm logic.

I’m a goddamn fool.

I don’t know how long I sit there, slumped down on the edge of my bed, my hands stuffed between my thighs, letting the events from earlier slowly and painfully sink into me. I’m a fool, a fucking moron. I sigh softly to myself, dragging a hand across my face.

It’s only the sound of a voice that snaps me from my thoughts.

“Jean?” It calls out softly. It sounds distant, near the front of the suite.

A brief, hesitant knock sounds out, followed once again by my name.

“Jean?”

I don’t answer, can’t bring myself to find the words.

“…Jean, I… The door’s open, I’m coming in.”

Goddamnit, I remember that I didn’t actually closes it when I’d barged in here earlier, too wrapped up in my thoughts to actually pay attention. I hear the sound of the hinges creak, followed by the delicate sound of the latch clicking closed. Footsteps sound out as my guest approaches. I already know who it is, but I want to pretend, if only for a moment, that I don’t. I don’t want to acknowledge him yet.

I don’t know how to face him right now. 

But I don’t have a choice.

It only takes a couple more steps, and Marco is standing in the open doorway of my bedroom. He doesn’t enter, doesn’t step past the threshold and I wonder if perhaps he realizes what exactly is going on with me. I hope that he doesn’t. I hope that I can play this off, just for one more day. Just one more day where I don’t have to talk to him about all of this. One more day, Marco, please… Just give me one more day to be your best friend.

There’s a silence that reigns between us for a moment, almost as if Marco is waiting for me to speak, but I don’t. I can’t speak yet. I don’t know what to say. I hear him exhale softly before clearing his throat.

“Why’d you run off, dude? We haven’t even gotten our medals yet…” Marco speaks frankly and innocently, as if perhaps he’s genuinely curious and I just don’t have the heart to respond to him. And so we sit in silence, the seconds slowly ticking by between us.

He clears his throat.

“I grabbed your bag for you… You, uh, you left it at the boathouse.” He sets my duffel bag just past the threshold of my room, as if it were some sort of strange peace offering between the two of us. “Jean?” Marco asks me again when I don’t reply.

I clench my eyes shut at the sound of my name slipping past his lips and shake my head. I look up for a second, just barely able to look at his face when I speak.

“Marco… can you just… can you just go? Please?”

He lets out a small huff, and I half-expect him to agree, to leave at my request. But instead, he shakes his head.

“…Not this time, Jean…”

I jerk my eyes away from him. I can’t look at him; I’m too afraid of the look on my face… I’m too afraid of what exactly I look like to Marco. He clears his throat ever so slightly, but pauses before speaking, as if waiting to see if I will say something.

He still hasn’t passed the threshold of my bedroom… It’s a small gesture, but I’m grateful for the modicum of space he gives me.

“If you really want me to go, I guess I will… But I don’t want to… Cause, Jean, something is _clearly_ wrong…”

My head drops a bit, my gaze shifting quickly to my shoes at his words. I know I should probably say something, but I can’t seem to find the words. I feel raw – so very raw and exposed, sitting here in front of Marco. Because… he’s right. Something  _is_ wrong. Something has been wrong for a very long time now and apparently this is the moment when that something has to be addressed.

And I’m not ready. I’m not okay.

I’m not ready for this friendship to end because of my own damn stupidity.

“Do you really want me to leave?” Marco asks me hesitantly.

There are no words, but merely a gesture, and I give my head a small shake to tell him ‘no’.

He probably  _should_ leave. For the sake of our friendship, he should leave. I’m not ready for any of this, and yet… and yet I don’t want him to go. I don’t know why – I hardly understand half the things I feel most of the time anyway.

I’m not ready to tell him why I freaked out and left. I can’t tell him exactly what that meaningless, stupid, celebratory temple-kiss has done to me over the course of the last 30 minutes or so. But I don’t want him to go. I can’t actually bring myself to tell him to leave with any semblance of sincerity.

“Okay…” Marco says softly, “So… talk to me, Jean.  _Please_ …”

His voice is pleading – soft but a little bit desperate, clearly wanting me to tell him something that’s true. He’s knows something’s wrong, and the typical “I’m fine” and “it’s nothing” banalities aren’t going to cut it this time. But what can I  _possibly_ tell him right now?

I wish I could yell at him, I wish I could hate him and tell him to stay the hell out of my life. Things would probably be easier. Hell, I’m sure if I had actually stood my ground earlier in the season and refused to let him close, refused to drop my walls, I’m sure that all of this would be a non-issue. But I wasn’t strong enough, and now here we are. I’ve all but confirmed to him that I’m not okay.

Marco has a quiet way about him, usually – modest and unassuming – but he’s sharper than he lets on. He reads people easily… that much has become apparent over the course of our friendship. He might not know exactly what’s wrong with me, but I know that if I lie, he’ll see right through me.

Another moment of silence passes between us and I still haven’t found it in me to reply. Marco lets out another flat sigh. He sounds… disappointed… almost sad, as if he were hoping for something more from me. As if he were hoping that I might finally confide in him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him lean to his right, bracing himself halfheartedly against the doorframe.

“Ah, man…” Marco mumbles, and I’m not sure if it’s to me or to himself. He lifts his hand, dragging it along the nape of his neck as he glances at the floor.

He pauses for another beat, breathes in slowly, and speaks.

“Why do you do this shit? Why do you do this to yourself?”

I clench my teeth, wringing my fingers together a bit in my lap. I’m sure Marco is staring at me, expecting me to say something, but I just… I just…

“Why do you… wall yourself off so much? Especially from me…”

Marco sounds sad. The inflection of his voice is low and solemn and I realize with sobering quickness that… I’ve hurt him. I drop my head a bit more, squeezing my eyes shut and breathing in a soft breath to try to steel myself.

“Because I don’t know how else to handle you…” I mumble, more to myself than to him, and I’m half-hoping he hasn’t even heard me.

“… _Handle_ me?” Marco repeats; the confusion in his voice is palpable.

I don’t know what it is inside me that finally pushes me, what thoughts finally make me break – maybe it’s the way Marco had kissed my temple today, or how I can’t seem to forget how he looks when he sleeps. Maybe it’s the way Marco had pushed me away all those weeks ago on the docks when I had so unthinkingly shoved my mouth against his… Maybe it’s simply the way that Marco doesn’t seem to know how to be friends without some form of intimacy tied to it, some platonic intimacy that I just can’t handle. But no matter what it is, I feel it crack inside me when I finally look up at him.

“Why can’t you just be  _normal_ ??” I whisper harshly, dropping my head again. With a quick breath, I stand up from my bed to face him. But I don’t dare step closer to him; I’m not that brave.

“Excuse me?” He retorts quickly – his voice a mixture of offense and bewilderment.

“Why… why can’t you ever just act like  _normal_ friends fucking act?”

There’s a slight look of hurt and confusion on Marco’s face and I can’t say that I blame him. This all has built up inside me for so long that I’ve almost forgotten that Marco hasn’t felt the things I’ve felt. To him, this outburst is nothing but uncalled for, perhaps even nonsensical.

“What are you…? I don’t…” Marco trails off.

I can’t do this… I can’t talk about this with him. The emotional charge that flits through my body is mine and mine alone – and sharing a modicum of it with him will do nothing but confuse him. Because I know that to him, everything has been fine. Dragging a hand over my mouth, I close my eyes, opening them only to address him again.

“Nevermind… Just. Forget it. I’m sorry.” The break in my voice is undeniable; it’s as much as I can do to simply pretend it isn’t there, “Just, can you please go? I’m… I’m fine, Marco… Everything is fine.”

“No!” Marco persists, voice suddenly punctuated and intense. His voice isn’t loud or angry, but it’s pointed and determined, unyielding in the face of my fruitless attempts to lie. “Everything is  _not_ fine, Jean.  _You’re_ not fine. Just  _tell_ me what is going on.”

Marco moves then, taking a quick step past the threshold and into my room. I hold my footing, not stepping back; and even though Marco has closed the gap between us by that much more, he still allows me space.

“Jean…” He pleads again, “Talk to me… I’m begging you, please, don’t shut me out.”

I turn my head away from him. He always has to say my name, doesn’t he? Always direct and respectful, from the day I first met him to the day I tried to push him away from me.

I won’t step back or away from him now, but I can’t look at him anymore. Because he’s right, he’s always fucking right and I can’t do this, I shouldn’t be saying  _anything_ at all. I’m not ready to let him go, I’m not ready to lose this man.

“God, I hate this, you know?” Marco starts, his voice just on the cusp of raw. The shift in his words is odd, the tone of his voice suddenly charged, and it takes me a little off guard, “I… I hate that it feels like you’re constantly blocking yourself off from me… It feels like anytime you let me close, you push me away again just as fast… and I  _hate_ it.”

I don’t mean to, but I can’t hold back the scoff that leaves my lips.

“Me? You’re fucking one to talk.” I’m not thinking, words suddenly bursting forth before I have the cognizance to hold them back, “You’ve pushed me away enough for the both of us! And you’re so goddamn  _confusing_ , all the time… You push me away and then, then just draw me right back in. And I apparently can’t fucking stay away… But I don’t  _know_ how to just be your friend, Marco!”

“What the hell are you  _talking_ about??” He asks me frantically.

I can tell he’s frustrated, confused by what I’m sure sounds like nonsense to him. But I don’t have the power to even think about properly explaining anything. I don’t understand any of this myself, and the words that are slipping past my lips are nothing short of desperate outbursts of a confused, fraught soul looking for some sort of closure or ending to whatever the hell Marco and I are.

How unreasonable it is of me to expect Marco to understand… The things that have bothered me so heavily are old news to him – things that happened weeks ago – or they’re things that happened recently but were non-issues for everyone except for me. The temple kiss, the constant closeness, it’s  _all_ been a non-issue for Marco. How could I reasonably expect him to understand?

If I were a better man, perhaps I could explain it calmly. Perhaps I could sit down and tell him all the things I’ve felt: all the confusion, the pining, the flutters of my stomach every time he touched me, the disappointment when I had to tell myself that it was nothing more than platonic.

But I’m not a better man.

I’m not the type of man who can be reasonable, apparently…  _I’m_ the type of man who yells at his best friend, who breaks and gets upset because their friend is trying to help and understand… I’m the type of man who is emotional and broken about things that Marco didn’t even know were going on.

I hang my head a bit, taking a step back away from Marco as he softens his voice.

“Look, I don’t… I don’t know exactly what I did, but I… I didn’t mean to push you away, Jean. And if I  _ever_ did, I’m  _sorry_ . Whatever I did to make you feel that way, it was never my intention…”

I want to reply, but I can’t think of anything to say. 

I don’t know what it is, but in the silence, something tells me to look at Marco. I dare a glance over at him, and I’m met only with his gaze that flitters between the floor and me. He looks confused still, he looks perplexed, almost as if he’s going through every single interaction we’ve ever had in a desperate attempt to figure out where he went wrong.

_You didn’t go wrong, Marco… It was me. I was wrong, and I’m sorry._

“I never meant to make you think that I-I wanted to, to push you away or anything… But I don’t… I don’t remember what I even did to… to –”

Marco stops his words mid-sentence, and the tight, worried sensation that overtakes me is terrifying. His shoulders stiffen and straighten a little as he snaps his head up to look at me fully. There’s an expression of sudden realization on his face and there is panic rising in my throat.

He knows. God, he knows. 

“Jean, is this… is this about what happened on the dock a few weeks ago? When you…” Marco trails off… When I what?? When I kissed him?

He can’t even say it. He can’t even fucking bring himself to say the word “kiss”.

My stomach aches.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Technically speaking, this flurry of panic and frustration started because of him kissing my temple a little while ago, but still, he’s right… That’s what this is really about: that one moment on the dock all those weeks ago. This all stems back to that single second when I kissed him and he pushed me away.

This all stems back to the way I feel for him and the way that I’m unable to let him go.

At my silence, his mouth slackens just a little, his brow furrowing.

“Oh my god, it _is_ , isn’t it?”

“I-…” My mouth feels dry, words stuck, stuttering their way off my tongue, “I didn’t want it to be like this, okay?” I whisper to him desperately.

Please, just understand, Marco. I never wanted any of this. I wanted to let you go. But I couldn’t.

“Fuck, this is because I didn’t kiss you back, isn’t it? Because I pushed you away??”

His voice is incredulous. Not demanding, but he sounds baffled, and a little bit surprised, and I honestly can’t say that I blame him. With the pieces steadily falling into place before him, it’s a goddamn miracle he isn’t yelling at me… but I’m sure that will come soon enough.

My eyes burn a little, but I can’t cry. I don’t want to, not now, not in front of him like this. I don’t need to prove to him that I’m even more pathetic than I’m sure he already thinks I am.

“Pl-” I start, voice choking for a moment before I can control myself. I pause, biting on my lip before I force myself to speak. “Please, just… spare me the outburst… okay? Just… just go.” My voice is soft, unconvincing, and I feel like I’m begging him. I’m begging him to please just  _go_ and not look back at me. I’d rather he leave and forget I ever existed than to be angry with me or hate me.

“ _No!_ ” Marco punctuates quickly. “We  _have_ to talk about this, Jean!”

I shake my head quickly.

“No, we don’t…”

“Yes, we fucking do!” Marco takes a moment, crossing one arm across his chest, the other gesturing towards me, punctuating his words. “Do you want to know why I didn’t kiss you back??”

I shake my head, a pathetic, desperate, almost manic smile eking its way onto my face because my body can’t figure out how else to react.

“I already know.” I tell him with a breathy scoff.

“No, you don’t. And don’t you  _dare_ act like you do!”

Marco’s words are firm with me, yet never angry and I’m not sure how he can still talk to me as if I’m someone deserving of any degree of respect.

When I speak, I don’t mean to shout. But there’s an anger that’s been building – anger with myself, not with Marco – that even though he doesn’t deserve it, I can’t seem to control myself as I spit out a reply.

“No! I  _do_ know!” I yell, a heavy huff on my tongue, fighting the way my lips want to curl – out of sadness, out of anger, out of desperation, I’m not sure which – “I know… You aren’t – you aren’t a fucking faggot like me…” My voice trails off at the end of my sentence, the words harsh against my tongue and painful to say.

The sudden shift in Marco’s expression is indescribable… His face no longer looks firm and determined, but rather offended, taken aback… maybe even hurt, I don’t fucking know. He bites back at me within a second, taking a half step closer to me.

“Don’t… don’t fucking  _say_ that about yourself. Don’t say that. God, Jean, those are  _not_ your words! Those are  _Daniel’s_ words. Don’t fucking talk about yourself like  _he_ would’ve talked about you. You deserve goddamn better than that!”

My face blanks. I have nothing; no words, no thoughts. I have nothing but the pained grimace that’s made its way onto Marco’s face. Freckled cheeks red and flushed, eyes bright, he closes his eyes for a moment, turning his head away as he drags his fingers across his brow. One more beat of silence and his attention is right back on me. His voice is quieter this time – lower but still punctuated and poignant.

“And… and who the hell are you to tell me what I am and what I’m not? You think you know, but you don’t know shit!” Marco pauses, inhaling sharply through his nose and calming once again. He speaks to me slowly now. “So. Do you want to know why I couldn’t kiss you back that night?”

Do I? I don’t know what I want. But he doesn’t seem to want to wait for my reply.

“It’s ‘cause you were fucking _upset_. You were  _hurting_ , Jean. You were upset, you were thinking about all these old, bad memories… You were  _vulnerable_ , and I wasn’t going to take advantage of you. I wasn’t going to be like that  _fucker_ that hurt you.”

Marco waits another moment, silently gauging me, but I have nothing for him but a blank stare. My head is heavy, because… he can’t possibly…

“And I tried to tell you, to fucking explain what I was thinking, but I was confused and blindsided too… And you ran off. So I figured you legitimately hadn’t meant to kiss me – that you had just been upset and acted on impulse…”

_Technically true…_

“You ran off, man. I thought you needed space… And then when we finally did talk, you  _told_ me it was nothing… And I believed you, because what else was I supposed to do? Call you liar?”

Marco’s watching me. His brow is furrowed and I’m sure he’s hoping I’ll say something, but I don’t know what to do right now. I’m confused and I’m lost, trapped in this swirling vortex that pushes me up out of the water only to suck me right back down again. And I don’t know how to get out.

“But it wasn’t nothing, was it?” He asks me – voice quiet, but demanding truth.

“…”

“Jean?”

Whispered words stutter past my lips – slow and uneven, controlled by nothing but the unconscious movement of my tongue.

“N-no… It wasn’t nothing…”

I clench my eyes shut, angry because I can feel them stinging, and my cheek feels wet. I hadn’t wanted it to be like this. I had wanted to be stronger than this… I had wanted to stand my ground. There were a lot of things I wanted… to keep Marco at a distance, to not let myself get so wrapped up in him, but I couldn’t even do those things… So is it any wonder that I’m crying when I told myself I wouldn’t?

When I open my eyes, Marco’s face is nothing but concern. He takes two steps towards me, closing the gap between us by just enough, and I don’t step back away from him. I feel his hand cup my jaw, thumb dragging tenderly along my cheek. My breath hitches ever so slightly at the contact – it’s a level of closeness that is not unusual for him, but it feels so different now.

“No, Jean, no. Don’t cry. Not ‘cause of me…” Marco whispers lowly. He glances slightly at the floor, eyes moving swiftly away from my face. “Look, I… I wanted to kiss you. But I couldn’t then, it wasn’t right… Because… Because I couldn’t kiss you and have you think that… that it was  _pity_ …”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his head again, purses his lips and relaxes them again. His hand still hasn’t left my jaw, thumb determined to wipe away whatever despondency dared to touch my cheeks.

“Cause it’s  _never_ gunna be pity, Jean… If I’m gunna kiss you, it’s gunna be ‘cause I want to, not because I feel sorry for you… And I wanted to kiss you, but it wasn’t right then… Goddamn, man, I… I care about you more than I have cared about anyone in a long, long time…”

“I care about you too…” I whisper back, words unsure and hesitant as they slide past my teeth. It sounds like a stupid, obvious thing to say after all that Marco has said, but my brain can’t find anything else.

“I wanted to kiss you. And I still want to, okay?”

There’s a moment as I listen when his words sound as if I’m underwater – muffled, unclear, blurry as if they weren’t meant to be heard and yet, I still heard them. He said them. Despite the confusion, despite my disbelief, Marco said them.

I should say something. God, there has to be something I can say, but I can’t. Because Marco is here, and touching my face; he’s standing in front of me, with no more than a couple inches between us, and he’s looking at me with desperation.

This doesn’t feel real. But even if this is all some horrible, fever-dream, I’ll take it.

Because at this point, this is all I have: disbelief, a little fear, and that  _way_ Marco is looking at me.

“Jean? Can I–” Marco starts.

I nod before he can even finish his question, movements desperate to tell him yes in the face of every nerve that has flared up inside of me.

Marco doesn’t waste a moment. Eyes still open, my breath catches hard in my throat when he leans forward, lips pursed just right to capture mine.

It isn’t like I dreamt – and it isn’t like that bastardization of a kiss that happened on the docks. His kiss isn’t fevered right now, it’s not heavy or overbearing, not reckless or full of careless, unthinking desperation. It’s soft – like everything Marco’s ever done. It’s chaste – because one of us is scared and at this point, I don’t know if it’s him or me.

His lips pressed against my own, the only movement is the slight curl of his fingers against the curve of my jaw. When he pulls away, there’s that small kiss-sound, that sound I’d never truly noticed when I’d kissed other people… It’s a gentle peck of oscillation that feels as if his lips had desired only to linger against my own. 

Marco’s eyes are closed, mouth still close to mine – breathing, waiting – and I’m fucking terrified. The only reason I keep my eyes open is because I’m afraid that if I do let them close, then that kiss will be nothing but a memory, a reverie, something I wished for but was never meant to have. I’m absolutely petrified, rooted in place before him as this moment rushes around me. I’d yearned for this this, I’d dreamt of this, I’d wanted nothing but this moment since I first accepted all the ways that Marco was beautiful and frightening and captivating.

When my hands move, it’s completely of their own accord. My body doesn’t think – it simply does. One hand settles on his waist, the other on his neck, and I draw him right back into me without another word.

My eyes shut this time – so ready and yet never ready or prepared enough to feel this fully, to accept him into me. It’s heavier this time, Marco’s mouth moving with sureness that commands me wordlessly.

He’s beautiful, my god, is he fucking beautiful. Marco could be that poisonous flower still – barbed and deadly – and at this point I wouldn’t care. He could paralyze me, destroy me, drown me, do with me what he wishes, so long as this moment lasts for just a little bit longer.

His mouth is like liquid, pliant and warm as his lips purse and press, as he steps forward and presses his chest flush against mine. The fingers on my jaw twitch and he cups the contour of my face with assurance, his other hand confident now as it encircles my waist and presses flat against the small of my back.

I don’t know what shifts in him, but he suddenly grapples at me. The hand at the small of my back presses firm again, urgent and needy to bring me closer. The hand that cups my jaw tilts my head and he opens us both. His movements are turbulent this time – not too hard or too rough, but determined and moving with resolution, and I am grateful for it. Every rugged movement he makes against my body reminds me that this is real, this is happening.

I had dreamt and imagined all the ways that Marco might kiss – envisioned how his lips might move and how he would breathe. But even the most vivid of dreams couldn’t have prepared me. There is poise in his mouth: a finely tuned and yet barely managed control in the way he moves against me. There is confidence and trepidation in his tongue as it drags against my own, there is a tremor in his hands that I can only hope is out of sheer desperation and need. And the small, broken whimpers that he slips into my mouth are enough to make me shake.

Marco is so precise, yet so out of control… So frantically steady, constantly pushing and pulling against me in a sense of urgency matched only by my own.

Marco’s tongue darts in and slips away like an ebbing tide and the breath I catch between his kisses hitches through my nose. I want him to lap at my mouth like the waters would because this is the first time in so long that I actually feel like the land. I feel lifted up – kissed and tickled by the caress of the water’s edge.

Marco kisses with precision and finesse; he moves with purpose but never overbearing and I am lost, so very lost, and yet so grounded by his touch… As he touches and tastes me, thought and rationality escape me.

He breaks away from me, if only for a breath and I can’t help the way I subconsciously lean back towards him for more. His hand on my jaw holds me away and he breathes shaky breaths that tell me he needs the air.

“Marco…” I whisper to him, and his name feels unlike any word I’ve ever said before in my life. “I…”

His forehead presses against mine, tilting his head a bit as my hand creeps along his neck, so desperate to pull him back to me, but trying to maintain some semblance of control over my actions. Marco inhales unsteadily.

“You mean so fucking much to me, Jean, you have no idea.”

I nod silently against his forehead. I don’t know what to say to him. There’s so much I want to tell him. I want to laugh at myself – how crazed and stupid I’ve been… I want to be angry… at myself, at him, at the two of us for complicating everything, and yet, in this moment all I can think about is the way his cheeks have flushed, and the way he grips my body. He holds me tight, hand pressed flat where my back is curved, holding me against him as if space should never have existed between us in the first place. He holds me like a lover, and there’s a moment when I realize with solemnness that this is how he’s always treated me… He’s always treated me with this closeness – no space, no boundaries, as if we had always been lovers. I’d only let it hurt because I’d convinced myself that intimacy meant nothing.

I squeeze at the nape of his neck, silently beckoning him to me again. I want so much, but it’s all moving so fucking quickly. Do I want this to go further right now? Is that too much, too soon to ask?  I know nothing except the urgent ache within my chest that tells me this is right and this is good, and that this is what all this nonsense has been about. A boy that got into my head with all the maddening, wonderful, and brilliant things he did. It’s about this boy who has inched his way beneath my skin until I could barely imagine my life without him.

And in this moment, I am sure, I am calm, and for the first time in an eternity, it feels as if the waters have stilled.

I want whatever he is willing to give me.

This time, unaware of what comes over me – perhaps its freedom or acceptance, I’m not sure what – but this time, I lean forward to take his mouth once more. I push into him, mouth open, warm and ready, and he responds without restraint. Marco kisses me with fervor, and I am caught up in it, moments slipping, until suddenly, we’ve closed the door and fumbled back onto my bed.

Marco’s arms brace his body as he hovers over me, mouths moving together as if the kiss were the only thing to keep us stable. He’s getting more frantic and I can feel it, his movements rushed, body writhing ever so slightly, lowering himself over me, closer to me with each touch of our tongues.

Perhaps its subconscious, but I cannot help the way my hips roll, achingly hard and needing to touch him. All this time, all this confusion, and yet here he is, moving against me in earnest. Our sweatpants do us no favors, hiding nothing between us and at the first needy roll of our pelvises against each other, Marco breaks the kiss.

His breath is uneven, hair disheveled from where my fingers have threaded through it, and he stares down at me with a look I cannot read.

“Jean, I… Is this… Is this okay? It’s… this is fast, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper back, “Marco… Pl-please, just…”, My voice is broken, raspy and cracked, and I arch my back. I push myself up into him a little just to try to crane up and reach his mouth once again. He whimpers at my touch, lowering to me once more without question. One hand lifts and his fingers thread through my hair, caressing it softly. My hands dare to drag down his sides, fingers inching slowly, only so far as he’ll let me go.

My fingers tremble as they reach the hem of his shirt – I still haven’t fully processed everything that’s happening, and my body isn’t exactly sure what it should or shouldn’t do. Fifteen minutes ago, I was mentally preparing myself for Marco to tell me he never wanted to see me again. Now he’s lying over me, nestled between my legs, and my hands are twitching at the fabric of his t-shirt. Yet again, I can’t help but wonder if this is all some heated delusion I’ve created to console myself.

Marco breaks our kiss with a breath, staring down at me with half-lidded eyes. His hand strokes my hair again, dragging down the side of my face. I hear him swallow thickly in the silence, nodding down at me slowly.

“It’s okay…” He tells me, voice barely above a whisper.

My fingers slip up beneath the hem, the first real touch of his flesh. Marco groans and nods again, eyes closing once more.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, leaning down to me and recapturing my mouth.

Digging the pads of my digits into the firm flesh of his body and it seems to urge him on. He thrusts his tongue forward into my mouth and rolls his body down against mine. He doesn’t seem to mind the firm way his crotch rubs down against my own, and my body shudders out a whimper at his touch.

In the back of my mind, I think back to all the ways I’d imagined this – floating, detached, never quite real, I had dreamt of this in so many different ways. And I think now to the way that Marco’s body is the thing that grounds me, the way he cages me in and rubs against me as if I am the only thing he cares about.

There’s a moment when I entertain the thought that perhaps, in these heated, frenetic minutes, that I  _am_ the only thing he cares about, the only thing he’s thinking about.

I know that he is all I can think about.

One of his hands drags softly down my chest, moving to grab ahold of my hipbone. He doesn’t quite jut his hands up under my shirt, and I wonder if he’s feeling the same hesitation that I had felt. He grips my hip, gives it a squeeze and relaxes. I curl my own fingers, nails raking along his skin before lifting them up, dragging the fabric of his shirt up with them.

It’s a bold move, one that I’m not sure how I found the courage to do… But even as my hands shake, they persist, hiking it up along the curve of his back. My fingertips graze along the contours of spine and muscle – raw sinew and bone that sends a fucking jolt through my body. 

Marco groans at my touch and my head feels fucking light. To hear his voice, to hear him groan deep and guttural from the way that _my_ hands are touching him, it’s too much. He exhales quickly through his nose and yanks his mouth away from mine, craning himself up and yanking his shirt off fully for me.

He doesn’t lower back down immediately; instead he kneels in his spot between my legs and waits. His hand falls once more to my hip, cupping the curve of the bone and rubbing softly. I look up at him, eyes dragging across every freckle that dots his skin delicately. I’ve seen them so many times – in the boat, when we’re changing for crew, and yet it’s never been like this. This is different – clouded before my eyes through a haze of adoration, confusion, and lust, and I‘m realizing slowly that I could touch them… if I felt so inclined.

I sit up, doing my best not to think as I grab the hem of my shirt and tug it upwards. It slips over my head, tousles my hair, but I can’t bring myself to care. I watch Marco instead. His eyes are heavy-lidded and blown and my breath hitches, my chest tightens at the way he looks at me. I sit up more fully and reach my hand out to touch the muscle of his pectoral, slipping slowly up to his shoulder, up, up, along the camber of his neck to pull him back down to meet my mouth.

When he lowers me back to the bed, there is a cadence to his motions. We drop back and he rolls his body over me, hips suddenly moving and rotating down against my own. The moan I release is nothing short of guttural. I feel so raw, so overtaken, so exposed and needy that I don’t even have time to think. The sweet, rhythm of his body pulses against me with the same finesse and delicacy that he pours into his rowing. And somehow, I always figured this is how it would be.

We kiss, we pulse, we breathe and with each undulation of his body I feel myself clouding over more and more. And yet, somewhere through the fog, something flares in the back of my mind.

One hand on Marco’s chest, I reluctantly urge him away. Our mouths separate with a gentle peck and he stays low and close to me. He shares my space – intimate, so very intimate – staring down at me as his hand runs down my side.

“What’s wrong?” He asks breathily.

“Just… Can you just tell me that this is actually what you want?” I ask him nervously, eyes meeting his with trepidation.

Marco’s brow furrows and he leans up just a little. A small half-smile slips onto his lips.

“Is that a serious question? I thought the whole ‘shirtless in bed’ thing was kind of a dead giveaway.”

He’s trying to keep this light, I can tell. Something about the look on his face tells me that he understands exactly why I’m asking.

“Humor me.” I whisper to him. “Please.”

He smiles at me softly, understandingly and nods. The hand on my side lifts up to caress the side of my face gently.

“I want this, Jean. I promise.” His hand strokes my face again as he leans down to kiss me. It’s different than the other kisses – tender and chaste – it’s reassuring. He pulls away from my mouth and begins to pepper light kisses along my jaw line. I sigh at the touch.

The hand that cradles my face urges my head to the side slightly, opening up the line of my neck. Marco wastes no time – the tender, soft kisses that lined my jaw edge downwards, mouthing more firmly against the musculature of my neck. His teeth graze my skin – not hard or biting, just nipping and testing. I hiss at his touch, hands landing on his hips once again, fingers curling against the hard flesh of his body as he moans into my skin.

My legs curl up a bit, lacing around Marco’s ever so slightly as he presses down against me once more. He’s hard – so fucking hard – as he rocks his hips flush against my own. I groan out, not thinking as I slip my fingers just slightly under the waistband of his sweats.

Marco shudders against me, his hands roaming, one moves down slowly towards my hips and against the waist of my pants. His tongue drags up along the tendon of my neck to whisper into my ear.

“Is this okay?” He asks, fingers twitching at my waistband.

I swallow thickly and nod to him, replying softly.

“You don’t uh, seem at all… nervous or anything…” I mumble between my soft pants.

Because honestly, I had expected… well, I’m not sure what I had expected… I hadn’t exactly expected any of this, if I’m being honest. But I  _imagined_ … that… if this ever were to happen, that there would be… some confusion, perhaps, like Daniel. But Marco has none of that. He’s confident and kind, asking for everything while still taking charge of everything, and it makes my stomach flip.

He pushes up a bit to look down at me, a sly grin lit onto his lips.

“Oh, I’m plenty nervous… But I told you I wasn’t innocent, didn’t I?”

_“I dunno, you’re just so… sweet and innocent, you know?”  
_ _“Hah! ‘Innocent’… If you only knew, my friend.”_

Jesus fucking Christ, Marco.

Marco chuckles a little and shrugs.

“I don’t know why everyone seems to think I’m some blushing virgin, but hey…” He looks at me again, the smile fading from his face as he meets my eyes, “But I want you to be okay with this, Jean… I only want to go as far as you want to.”

I say nothing for a moment, staring up at him with a heavy mix of desire and emotion flaring up inside me. His fingers still hover at my hip, and I can practically feel their want, itching at my skin as Marco waits and watches me. Wordlessly, I snake my hand around his nape and drag him down to meet my mouth. I grind my hips up into his touch, pushing hard against his hand and rubbing myself against his crotch.

“I’m – this is good,” I groan against his mouth, “And I want you.”

“I want you too.”

Marco’s fingers press hard into the flesh of my hips, groaning as he lowers his mouth to my neck. Teeth nip and bite – sharp fangs but never overbearing and I’m trusting him to not sink them down into me. He tongues at all the places his teeth touch, warm and reassuring as his hand begs permission to creep lower.

“Please…” I whisper, barely able to form the sound.

And Marco doesn’t need any other encouragement. His hand slips beneath the waistband of my boxers, touching me with a firm but tender grip. Eyes slammed shut, I hiss at his touch – so new, so foreign, so unbelievable that I’m still not fully sure that I’m awake.

He doesn’t move for a moment, hand warm against my length. His lips move away from my neck, before almost immediately pressing soft against mine in a kiss. It’s gentle and warm, and he pulls away with a labored breath, pressing his forehead against my own. He breathes my air, shuddered and shaking.

“Look at me…” Marco mumbles, lips brushing against my own with each spoken word, and I have no choice but to obey.

My eyes open, heavy-lidded and hazy as I meet his.

His hand moves, pulsing and determined. He strokes me until my voice breaks, until raw noise and breath keen and tumble from my mouth. Marco breathes with me, rolling and pressing his body down against me as best he can, his hand never stopping its motions. My fingers clutch at his back – digging hard into heated skin and muscle. And I have to stop him, because I can’t last if he keeps this up.

Because I want more.

I’m fucking terrified. But I want more. I want whatever he will give me.

“M-Marco…” I breathe.

“That’s it…” He groans hot into my ear. 

“Wa-wait…”

Marco’s hand slows, allowing me the pause, and he looks down at me with concern.

“You okay?” He asks and I nod as quickly as I can. Because, yes, I’m terrified, and yes, I’m not even sure that this real, but I am more than okay.

My hands cup each side of his face, dragging him down to kiss me. With the slightest swell of bravery, I murmur my words against his mouth.

“Marco… I- I want you…”

“I want you too…” He tells me again without pause.

I shake my head slowly because I don’t know if he understands, and for once in my life, I’m too shy to ask. I’ve never been shy, I’ve never been nervous with someone in bed like I am right now, and the sheer thought of telling him exactly what it is I want twists my stomach.

But this… this has been good so far… And I need him, god do I fucking need him. Dragging my fingers through his hair, I tell him.

“I need you, I, I want… more… whatever you’re – whatever you’re okay with.”

My words are jumbled, nowhere near as eloquent or suave as I was hoping to be, but it will have to do. Because there’s lust and need and something else written on Marco’s face, and I hope he understands.

His hand relaxes his grip around my cock and pulls away ever so gently, but he moves it straight up to my hip, not yet willing to break our contact. Marco licks his lips steadily, but he never breaks his eye contact with me.

“You mean…?” He trails off, and I have to wonder if perhaps he’s as nervous as I am.

He must be, the way he’s looking at me, the way he can’t seem to catch his breath, the way his fingers itch and twitch, desperate to touch, unable to pull away. For so long, I’d viewed him as this wholly separate entity from me – different and collected in all the ways that I was not – strong and able, the natural leader. Powerful and terrifying, dangerous in all the ways I had learned to avoid.

And dangerous things don’t get scared.

But Marco isn’t dangerous. He never was. And he’s nervous, maybe even a little scared, just like I am. Face flushed, brown eyes dark and blown with want and desperation, fingers and hands yearning to move but hesitant: he’s nervous.

I’d almost forgotten that he was human – young and human and nervous – just like me.

And I love him for it.

“If… if it’s okay… if you would-would want that…” I mumble, words fumbled and hesitant, because I want him to tell me yes. I want him to  _want me_ like I want him. I want him to need me and crave me and yearn to take me so much he can hardly stand it.

I want to hear him tell me he’s looked at me the same way that I have looked at him since I met him.

Marco watches me for a moment, gaze focused on my eyes, his body unmoving aside from the shuddered intakes of his breath. And I can’t read him. My thumb rubs along his cheek softly, simply because I can think of nothing else to do in the silence that hovers between us. His hand quickly moves up from my hip, covering my hand that rests against his face. He holds my fingers, moves my hand down to his lips and kisses the skin of my palm – kisses soft and calloused flesh all the same, he kisses the tears and remnants of injuries that he helped mend and heal.

He squeezes my fingers, kisses again, and nods.

“Jean…” Marco breathes, lips pressing against my palm still, over and over, “I do, Jean. I want that.”

My stomach tightens, because I’d half-expected him to say no. To tell me it was too much, too fast, too soon, but he didn’t.

I don’t know what comes over me – desire, desperation, pent up feelings spilling atop the walls of the dams, I don’t know – but I surge up to him. I crush my mouth against his in an act of urgency that surprises even me. Marco responds in kind, kissing me hard and deep.

His hands are on me again and I can hardly keep up. Nails rake my flesh. I palm him through his sweatpants. He tugs my hair. I hiss into his ear. Whether it’s bravery or sheer, unrestrained want that builds inside me and spurs me forward, I don’t know, but I push forward. My fingers tentatively ease the waistband of his sweats down, and he matches me in kind, ushering mine away as well. And before I know it, clothes are gone, and there is nothing between us but the flimsy barriers of our skin.

My hands are trembling and I know they are, but I ignore them, focusing instead on the warmth of his flesh as it radiates against my own. I focus on the sounds he makes when my hips roll, when his dick brushes against my own, when he pants and moans, my name always just on the tip of his tongue.

I want to wall off this moment – because there’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. There’s no promise that come morning, or hell, even come middle of the night, Marco won’t decide that this was a terrible idea. There’s no promise that he won’t decide that this was a mistake and that he doesn’t want to see me again.

But for now, Marco is what I have right here and now. I’ve let him in this much, he’s already past my defenses, and I think he probably always has been. Whatever happens tomorrow, will happen, but at least I’ll have this moment.

He ushers me onto my stomach, splaying himself over me, mouth attaching to my shoulder to kiss and nibble before dragging kisses down along my spine. Each touch jars me and shakes me in ways I’m not ready for and I hope I never am ready for them, I hope I’m never used to them, because I want this electricity every second that I’m with him.

Marco knows how to move, how to touch and ease. When I had him the lube, there’s no hesitation, despite the tremble in his fingers. Body touching mine to warm me, chest against my back, he keeps his hand between us to probe along my entrance – motions sure as if he’s known I’ve needed him from the start.

He enters me slowly, a groan slipping almost accidentally from his lips as his finger slides in. Propped up on my elbows, I whimper at his touch, head lifting up as his mouth once again trails kisses along the lines of my neck. Marco moves inside me, fingers easing and stretching – one, then two – until my breath is merely an afterthought.

“God, Jean…” Marco whimpers, fingers sliding in with slightly more speed, just enough to push me and make me arch for him. I can feel his cock pressing hard against my leg, grinding against me almost in time to the way his fingers thrust.

“Please,” I plead to him softly, trying like hell to crane my head to capture his mouth once more.

Marco stops his motions, steadily extracting his fingers from me. I expect to feel his cock next, pushing at me, urgent to take me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tugs my shoulder just slightly, just enough to usher me onto my back. Marco kneels up, sliding on a condom and rubbing himself over with a little more lube, but he never takes his eyes off me.

He moves languidly, leading my legs apart and steadily guiding them to splay around his body. One hand pressed against my hamstring, he lifts my legs to give himself more room and I feel him then, head rubbing just lightly against my entrance.

And he pauses. Marco looks down at me with a questioning stare – a gaze that asks me if this is still okay.

In this moment, he could drown me, kill me, destroy me if he so chose. I’m vulnerable in his hands, but at this point, I’ve more than accepted my fate. And if he wishes to drag me down to the bottom, if this is all so he could be the heavy millstone around my neck, then so be it. Because after this, I don’t think I could find the surface on my own anyway.

My hands lift to take hold of his biceps, fingers massaging the muscled flesh as I look at him and nod.

“Yes…” I tell him softly.

And that’s all he needs. He keeps his eyes on me, guiding himself slowly as he presses into me. He moves slowly – so very slowly – filling me up with as much control as he can muster.

“Fuck…” He groans, eyes slipping shut as he slides fully into me.

He feels good, god, he feels so good, and I ache for him to move, to go deeper, to take me like he needs me. I want him to take me like he’s always needed me since they moment he met me.

The slightest movement of his hips and he pulls out, only thrusting back with the gentlest of touches, the deepest of care that I be comfortable. Because he’s still nervous, and I understand, because I am too. But I want to tell him that this is good, and that I need him, I need him so fucking badly that it hurts.

My hands slide up to his neck, fingers rubbing through the short locks along his nape and I groan for him.

“It’s okay,” I shush in the quiet of the room. “Please.”

It’s all he needs. Marco nods steadily, pulling back and thrusting back in with a bit more speed and force. It isn’t hard, but it’s fucking  _good_ , and it seems to shake him from the inside. A guttural moan escapes his lips and his eyes shut as he pushes back into me.

“God, you’re so…” He starts, voice trailing off as his hips begin to move faster, harder into me. Each time, he hits just a bit deeper until he finds that spot, that spot that sets me whimpering and begging.

“Oh god, Jean.” He groans again and I feel my stomach twist tightly. My name slipping past Marco’s lips has never sounded sweeter and I need to hear it again and again.

“Say it again.” I whimper as Marco thrusts into me again, body rocking and pushing and pulling against my own.

“Jean.”

“Yes…”

Marco cranes down as best he can, folding my legs just enough so he can reach my mouth, capturing my lips in a desperate kiss as his hips continue to pump into me.

“Feel good?” Marco pleads into my mouth.

His hand reaches between us to take hold of my dick – hard and fucking needing his touch – and the sounds the slip past my teeth are nothing short of incoherent pleas. Because yes, it feels good, and yes, I’m afraid, and yes, I’m fucking happy because this is all I had wanted and more.

It isn’t perfect – it’s been hesitant and nervous and anxious and new – but it’s good, it’s goddamn good.

And I need it.

I need him.

As he strokes me, and thrusts into me, I can feel my stomach tightening. My head is getting lighter and there’s a fire pooling and twisting up in my belly and I know I’m getting close. My eyes squeeze shut, fingers grappling at the firmness of his body just to try and ground myself. Maybe Marco can sense it building inside me; his moans get a little coarser, a little more labored, and he strokes me faster, pushing me further and further until I can’t take it anymore.

“M-Marco…” I whimper, my words faltering, “I’m…”

“Jean…” He breathes, my name the only word he seems to want to form, and that does it.

His name on my mouth, I’m coming. My fingers curl and my nails scrape as Marco moans my name over and over, his body shuddering just after my own.

**::**

It’s over before I’ve really even had time to process it. By the time my brain catches back up, Marco is up and out of the bed, glancing quickly out into the hallway, and heading towards the bathroom. In the short minute of absence, I glance around my room, and if it weren’t for the strewn clothes and shoes on the floor, I could probably convince myself that this had been nothing but an extremely vivid hallucination.

 

But within a moment, Marco is back, and at the sight of his naked body heading back towards the bed, this all suddenly feels real. And the fear returns. I watch Marco carefully, watch as he stoops down to grab his sweatpants, carefully tugging them up over his hips, underwear ignored. He leans down and grabs my own pair and offers them to me.

I take them silently, hesitantly shucking them onto my body before sitting up fully.

I spare a glance at Marco’s shoes, abandoned at my bedside, and I wonder now what he’ll do. Part of me expects him to slip them on and wish me well, heading out the door, me nothing but a nice, easy fuck in his memory.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he strides back over to the bed and shoves me lightly with a smile to scoot me over. I edge over towards the wall and Marco climbs back into bed, settling himself down amongst the covers without a second thought. I stay sitting up, watching him uneasily, unsure now of what to do or how to behave.

Last my brain checked in, I was yelling at him, telling him how I don’t know how to deal with him, telling him I didn’t know how to just be his friend. And now, my thoughts all realigning themselves and reassessing the situation, Marco is lying next to me in my bed and silently gesturing for me to lie down with him.

My stomach turns with uneasiness and hesitancy, but I lie down none the less. Marco drapes his arm around me as my head settles atop his chest, and I wonder when the ball will drop. I wonder when he decides he’s had enough and heads out the door.

But nothing happens.

Instead, we simply lie here together, Marco’s fingers casually dragging along my shoulders and back, and I feel like… maybe this is okay.

Marco inhales a deep, lengthy breath and sighs it out on a yawn. He glances up at the window, perhaps noting the quickly fading light of day, and he groans.

“Oooooooh, coach is going to be _so_ pissed we left early…” He murmurs, voice barely carrying even in the silence of my room.

And just like that, I feel myself relaxing. Because this might actually be okay. From just one sentence, I can feel the bundle of nervous knots in my stomach releasing, my frown easing a bit, and a smile creeping onto my lips in its place. Because… this is still just Marco. The same Marco that’s made me laugh countless times before. The same Marco I row with and goof around with. The same Marco who makes me dance around like a moron to weird Bollywood music I’ve never heard before.

This is the same Marco I’ve always known.

I chuckle softly, letting my head relax onto Marco’s chest a bit more fully and shrug.

“No kidding… You can blame me though if he gives us shit.”

“Oh, I was already planning on blaming you, don’t worry.”

I laugh again, pressing my face further into the flesh of Marco’s chest. His arm that’s wrapped around my shoulders gives me another little squeeze and he plants a kiss on the top of my head.

We need to talk about this; I know we do. We need to talk about what all of this was, what it is, but for now, I think that it can wait. For now, I’m perfectly happy to have him stay with me for another moment longer, as the daylight fades and creeps out of my room.

In this moment, I’m okay.

**::**

When I wake up, it’s dark. I’m not entirely sure what time it is, but what I do know is that there’s definitely a feeling of a body lying next to me in my bed. I lift my head just slightly, my eyes landing on Marco’s outline, just barely illuminated by the outdoor lights seeping in through the blinds.

So he didn’t leave.

Our limbs aren’t entangled anymore, the two of us simply lying on our sides facing each other. There is a modicum of space between us, but the closeness is still there. And I’m… I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful for him. I’m grateful that he’s still here, lying next to me asleep as if this were normal and okay.

As gently as I can, I reach over and touch the side of his face. Marco doesn’t even stir.

I don’t want to, but my bladder demands I move. As carefully as I can, I crawl over Marco’s sleeping form, steadily easing myself out of the bed so as not to wake him. Marco simply groans softly at my movements, but doesn’t stir.

I relieve myself quickly, anxious to simply get back into my room and lie back down beside Marco. Because I don’t know exactly what tomorrow morning is going to bring – I don’t know if he and I will be forced to talk about this, or if perhaps he’ll decide that last night was it and that he’s over it all now, but for now, I want to enjoy him. Heading back down the hall towards my room, I take a quick glance at the wall clock.

Only 3 am. I still have a while to enjoy this.

It’s only as I’m slipping back into my room that I notice the small Ziploc baggy taped to the outside of the door. I snatch it down and open it, pulling out two gold medals and a small piece of paper with Reiner’s messy handwriting on it.

 

 

I smile softly, folding the note back up and shoving it back in the baggy and heading back into my room. I set the bag aside on my desk, crawling as gently as I can over Marco and back to my empty spot in the bed. As soon as I’m lying down, Marco stirs a bit. His eyes just barely blinking open, he grins a little and drapes his arm across my chest, before quickly slipping back into sleep.

Despite the ache in my chest that tells me this might all go away in the next few hours, I can’t help but smile just a little at him. Maybe this isn’t exactly how I thought things would go or where I thought he and I might end up, but I’m going to enjoy it for however long I have it.

**::**

The next time I wake, it’s the bright morning light piercing through the blinds that rouses me. I wake up gently, but startle upwards when I see that the spot in the bed beside me is empty. But the panic in my chest subsides quickly when my eyes land on Marco, standing at the foot of my bed, still shirtless, his arms up over his head as he stretches languidly.

He catches my eyes quickly and relaxes, arms falling down to his sides.

“Morning!” He says brightly.

I sit up fully, drawing my knees up and resting my elbows on them as I watch Marco flitter around the room, trying to find his shirt. He picks it up and fluffs it out, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles it obtained from lying crumpled on the floor all night. Softly, I clear my throat.

"You can uh, wear one of mine if you want?”

“Yeah? You don’t mind?”

I shake my head.

“So long as you give it back.”

Marco smiles at me and winks, before digging through my closet and tugging out a shirt.

“Dude, I’m starved, you wanna get breakfast?” He asks, as I stand to follow his lead and get dressed. I scoff.

“You’re always starved.”

Marco plops heavily on the edge of my bed and shrugs, staring up at me.

“I’m a high-octane machine, what can I say?”

I glance around the room and then at my sweatpants, thinking to myself that if Marco plans to go out in his sweats then it should be fine if I do the same. Tugging on my own shirt, I nod to him and tell him that breakfast sounds good. He grins at me and stands, before quickly glancing at the floor. With a loud “hah”, he swoops down and snatches up his underwear.

“Almost forgot these. You were just gunna let me go out commando, weren’t you?” He laughs, not an inkling of hesitation as he tugs down his sweats and slides the underwear on and pulls his sweatpants back up.

Whatever hesitation I feel now, he clearly doesn’t share it. And so, if only because Marco acts as if this is normal, I dig through my boxer-briefs, find a fresh pair, and quickly change into them as well. Maybe this should be awkward, but Marco hardly seems to care, and somehow it makes me feel better. Once I’m redressed, Marco stands from the edge of my bed and claps me on the shoulder.

“Ready?” He asks, and I nod.

I head to the door and hesitantly open it a crack, glancing briefly out into the common area and listening to see if I hear my suitemates. When I’m met with only silence, I nod slightly and turn back to Marco.

“Looks like the coast is clear,” I tell him.

Marco just furrows his brow and smiles slightly.

“Heh, what?” He asks, a touch of confusion to his tone. I glance back at him.

“Oh, uh, I just mean, I think the others are gone…”

“Probably already at breakfast, the bastards.” He chuckles, before trying to slide by me and out the door.

I can’t help the way I stare at him for a moment. Because I’m not sure how to respond to this. I’m not really used to  _not_ sneaking around… But Marco seems so unconcerned and carefree about whether or not my suitemates are present and I’m sure that whatever this means is obvious, but somehow my brain just isn’t fully ready to process it.

I can’t seem to grasp why he  _wouldn’t_ be worried, why he  _wouldn’t_ want to sneak around our friends.

So, as Marco moves to open the door and slide out, I stop him. Pressing my hand flat against the door, my arm blocking his path, I make him pause for a moment. Maybe this isn’t the best time to do this – because he and I have spent the night together and I don’t know exactly what it is  _I’m_ thinking, let alone what  _he’s_ thinking about the whole situation. Maybe now isn’t the best time, but I can’t help myself. Because I have to ask…

I need to know…

“Marco, wait…” I tell him, hand pushing the door back closed a fraction.

Marco stops when I ask him, turning his attention to me fully. He waits for my arm to lower, but it doesn’t, and so instead, he simply lifts his hand to push aside some the hair that dangles in my face. He smiles at me and my stomach flips at the sheer gentleness of the gesture.

“S’wrong?” He asks.

I swallow thickly, staring up at Marco now, whose eyes are focused solely on me. There’s a look on Marco’s face – attentive and mild, a look of quiet, intimate concern – and for a moment, I wonder how long he’s looked at me this way.

I wonder if perhaps he’s always looked at me this way, and I’ve simply never noticed it… or actively chose to ignore it.

Licking my lips, I force myself to speak. Because I have to know. I can’t go through the disappointment all over again.

“Marco… what exactly… What exactly are you hoping to get out of… out of this?”

Marco just pauses in response to my question, pursing his lips gently as if contemplating his answer. And the silence finds a knot twisting up in my throat. Finally, Marco exhales gently and speaks.

“Hmmm… Turkey sausage, mostly. They don’t always have it on the weekends, you know, it’s usually just the regu-”

“Marco.” I say with a huff, my voice a bit firm. Because I know he’s just trying to keep things light, but I need an answer.

The look on his face shifts quickly, and I know he understands.

“Sorry, just a joke… You just seemed so serious.” He pauses for a moment, “But you mean, what do I want between…” Marco gestures between the two of us, “between us?”

I can only nod softly. It feels like he’s taking  _so_ long to answer. I just want an answer, that’s all I want. I don’t need him to tell me he’s in love with me, I don’t need him to tell me we’ll be together forever, I just have to know what it is that he wants. Because I can’t go through another Daniel. I don’t have it in me, and after last night, I don’t know that I could let Marco carry on and then let him go the way I let Daniel go.

If he doesn’t want this to be anything at all… Well, it will hurt, but I suppose I could handle it. And I would rather know right off the bat. Because then I could at least begin the tedious, painful process of extricating myself from the ties I’ve made with him. But if, by chance, he actually wants this to be something, I need to know. Because I don’t want to get my hopes up for nothing. 

Please, Marco, just tell me. Tell me, and we’ll go from there.

Marco sighs softly, biting his lower lip before giving me a small shrug.

"I mean, I guess it’s kinda dependent on what  _you_ want… But  _personally_ …” He trails off for a moment, before recomposing his thoughts, “Personally, I’d like to continue this…” Marco gestures once more between himself and me when he says “this”, as if to emphasize that this thing we’ve grown into is something undefined and unclear, that we’re something even he doesn’t fully understand.

And I understand that feeling… 

Because as I’m staring up at him, despite the fact that he looks sure in his words, there still seems to be a hint of confusion on his face. He looks as if perhaps he’s wondering the same things about me that I’ve wondered about him from the start, and I don’t know if that’s comforting or not.

I don’t know what exactly he and I are… And it would seem that Marco doesn’t either.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe that’s part of the process.

Marco breaks the tension with a small smile and another shrug, lifting his arm to scratch at the nape of his neck as he speaks again.

“And I dunno, I was kinda hoping we might could do like… a proper date or something too.” He chuckles, “Cause I feel like we’ve been doing the coffee and movie dates for like months now…”

That comment seems to do it for my nerves. My face – which has been all seriousness and concern – breaks into a grin, a small interruption from the tension of the previous moments. And somehow, I feel a little better. Sparing a glance up at Marco’s face – soft and gentle as he looks at me, a little half-grin quirked onto his lips – I wonder how I ever could have thought him capable of harm.

“You… you wanna date me?” I ask him slowly. 

“I want to date you.” He says surely, “If that’s something…  _you_ would be interested in?”

I don’t know why I chuckle – breathy and a little frenetic – because the moment isn’t funny, but I chuckle none the less, my head nodding quickly.

“I… Yeah… Yeah, I’d be interested in that.”

Before I know it, Marco’s arms have slipped around me, pulling me into a comfortable hug. And I can think of nothing better to do than return it in kind. Burying my face in his neck, I savor the feel of him, the warmth of his body, the smell of his skin, the tickle of his hair.

When he pulls away, it’s only by a fraction, and he grins down at me slyly.

“Know what else I’d be interested in?” He asks – voice suave and fucking… _sinful_ … and I feel my stomach flip at the sound.

“Wh-what?” I stammer, words refusing to fully cooperate with my tongue.

Marco leans in close, a hand deftly sliding around my waist and pressing against the small of my back to bring my body closer to his. He kisses along my cheek, mouth edging closer to my ear. He sighs, warm breath gentle as it tickles my skin and I can’t help but shudder.

“ _Turkey_ .  _Sausage_ .” He purrs into my ear sensually and I…

Wait, fucking  _what_ ? 

“Oh my godddd,” I groan, shoving him away from me with a roll of my eyes. Marco simply cackles, flinging open the door of my room and leading the way to breakfast.

**::**

Despite Marco’s previous actions and his seeming lack of concern for the opinions of others, I had still expected him to have some bit of restraint with me while we were in public. But as we walk to the cafeteria, Marco has no problem reaching over and taking a gentle hold on my hand.

He doesn’t lace our fingers together, instead turning to catch my eye, silently asking my permission that this is okay. I can only think to respond by squeezing his hand a little bit tighter, moving to gently intertwine our fingers.

And it’s strange. Because I’d grown accustomed to being hidden away, locked in the shadows as a meager tryst, and it hadn’t fully occurred to me that Marco might actually  _want_ to be seen with me.

There is warmth in my chest at the way he touches me, warmth that perhaps has always been there, but that I’ve never allowed myself to savor. But steadily settling over me now is the hesitant realization that I don’t actually have to shy away from the warmth, and instead, I’m allowed to bask in it. And I want to. I want to feel this tender affection in every little touch, in every glance, in every word.

I suppose perhaps that  _if_ he and I do continue on together, maybe I’ll get used to this sort of thing. But for now, I don’t want to get used to it. I want to feel jolts every time he touches me, I want to feel my cheeks flush when he looks at me, I want to feel a drive for him within my chest that can’t be beaten down or locked away.

As we get our food – Marco with a plateful of turkey sausage – and find our friends, it’s almost as if life were normal. And perhaps it is. They greet us with smiles, still talking about our race the day before and how well we did, and how happy everyone is that we won. We talk about celebrating – a small party or something this weekend – and we talk about finals, because the semester is quickly coming to a close.

Everything feels normal, and it feels good. And the way that Marco is pressing his knee up against mine underneath the table is perfectly fine with me.

Reiner is the only one to mention what happened the day before, speaking softly to me and Marco, saying,

“I told Levi you had a meeting for your neuro final. So ya know, just go with it if he asks,”

And that’s it.

The conversation shifts back to the race and it’s like nothing strange had ever happened. I spare a glance at Marco, who’s already looking right back at me. He elbows me playfully with a grin before taking hold of my hand beneath the table.

And this is alright.

As we all finish up, Sasha is the first to stand, dragging her hand across Connie’s head before glancing over to Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, and me. She gestures to the four of us.

“They’re doing a midnight showing of The Babadook tonight at the Bijou; you guys up for a triple date?”

There’s a moment when I can only stare at her. She says ‘date’ like it’s nothing, no big deal, and you know, I’m steadily becoming very okay with that. Bertholdt and Reiner are quick to agree, before shooting me a questioning glance. I cast a look at Marco who nods his approval.

And so, with a slight, comfortable smile, I shrug and say,

“Sounds great.”

**::**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this chapter was SUCH A BEAST. Like. 30,000 words, dear god. 
> 
> BUT I HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT. As usual, I greatly appreciate your feedback - comments, kudos, likes/reblogs, whatever! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Just one more little chapter to go. 
> 
> As usual, please feel free to check me out on [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com)


	17. The Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _// You said you think I might be the one._  
>  _I'll pick blossoms and make you a crown._  
>  _You can’t catch what’s coming down._  
>  _Our love has grown; our love has flown. //_  
>   
>  Coming Down || Dear Euphoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, a while back I did some okay-ish art from Chapter 8. You can find it [HERE](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/127041913578/and-i-want-nothing-more-than-to-fight-for-him-i). Or if you wanna see any of my other art, as there are a few Jeanmarco pieces (that are better than the one linked before, I promise), you can check out my [My Art Tag](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20art) on tumblr.

After our first night together, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from Marco. I certainly hadn’t expected him to stay the night; I hadn’t expected him to want to hold my hand or to agree to triple dates with our friends, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

I definitely hadn’t expected him to continue to invite me over to his room, or to ask if he could come stay with me at mine. I hadn’t even anticipated that Marco might actually follow up on his desire for a proper date, but he did. He took me out to a nice restaurant – all proper and shit – and he laughed and smiled with me like he always had as my friend, except this time he touched our legs together and he held my hand on top of the table without an inkling of reservation.

He held my hand atop the gearshift of the car as we drove back to campus from our date. Even the word “date” feels odd, and yet, that’s what it was… And with his thumb idly stroking the skin of my hand, I know that all I could think of were all the times I had stared over at him from the passenger seat of a darkened car, driving to and from regattas, wondering silently what might happen if I took his hand.

I had never even considered that Marco might simply hold my hand in return.

I don’t know what exactly it was that I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

I’ll admit, though… sometimes I like being surprised.

**::**

After the last race of the season, the team keeps up with our practices. End of the semester practices are hardly ever formal, but Hanji and Levi like to keep us around, keep us moving and rowing, if only for the sake of finishing the year off together as a team. Sometimes, they’re even fun: post-season practices are usually full of ridiculous drills that I’ve always been convinced were designed by coaches with the sole intent of laughing at their rowers.

But if you had asked me earlier in the season if I ever thought that I could sit behind Marco in the boat and reach my hand out to touch him without hesitation or confusion… That I could tenderly caress the expanse of his shoulder, or rub my thumb along the dusted skin, I would have laughed at you. Probably would have called you crazy before demanding that you never bring it up again.

And yet… here we are.

Now, when I touch Marco’s shoulder, he turns and smiles at me, craning his neck to peck his lips gently at whatever skin of my hand or fingers he can reach. And I smile back because nothing inside tells me not to now.  

I think I expected to be shunned, or to be forgotten, because some damages just don’t die easily or quickly. But I think, too, that Marco understands that. Because he always keeps me close – he wraps his arm around my shoulders while we stand in a team huddle, he leans back in the boat to rest down against my legs and feet… he sneaks kisses onto my cheek whenever he thinks I’m not paying attention.

He calls me his boyfriend.

I call him mine too.

And maybe I’m not totally better – of  _course_ I’m not – part of me is going to struggle, part of me is going to continue to doubt and to worry. But that’s okay, because I think maybe this is just part of the process. And Marco has a way of looking at me that reminds me of all the words he’s ever spoken to me, all the ways he’s ever touched me, and all the ways he silently tells me that I don’t need to worry.

**::**

The final couple of weeks of the semester disappear  _far_ too quickly.

I get an A on my final painting project, and it’s hung along the walls of the art building alongside my classmates’ projects. With my approval, a few of Marco’s candid portraits of me at the race site are hung on the opposite wall with the rest of his group’s work. I’ll admit it: there’s a small part of me likes to look at them, pausing for a few moments in the hall to drag my gaze over them. It’s odd to see my own face and profile hung along the walls for everyone to see, but I almost don’t mind. Because the care and focus that went into Marco’s photos is obvious: gleaming morning oranges and yellows, silhouettes in the sunrise, and soft expressions on my face – all pointed in Marco’s direction – that I hadn’t even realized I was making.

And I wonder if this was how he always saw me… I wonder if perhaps I really had been stupidly oblivious to the looks he gave me, to the looks I gave him, to the way he always gazed at me with such tender focus in his eyes.

Deep down, I hope he always sees me this way. I hope I never forget that this is what I was to him...

True to his word, once my painting is taken off the walls of the art building, Marco buys it a frame and hangs it proudly in his dorm. He smiles at it and kisses me hard against the wall beneath it. Fingers threading through my hair, he mouths along my neck and whispers my name like it’s the only word he cares to know.

I let him into me and I moan his name right back to him, because I  _can_ .

**::**

Move out day comes far too quickly and I’m just not ready for it. The last few weeks had seen us growing more and more comfortable with each other, and I have honestly felt more at home with my feelings than I have in ages. And I’m just not ready to have to say goodbye – even if it’s only temporary.

But we have to, and I know it.

We already arranged our dorms for next year – keeping essentially the same set up we had this year. Marco managed to swing a single again, though on a different floor, and – through some magic that I’m not privy to – Bertholdt managed to not only get a suite for me, Reiner, Connie, and himself again, but he somehow managed to secure the  _same_ damn suite we had occupied this year.

Needless to say, we’re more than a little annoyed that the campus still requires we move our stuff out, even though we’ll be moving it right back in two months from now. But that’s out of our hands.

Reiner and Bertholdt leave with firm hugs and promises to harass us all over the summer, and I know they will. Connie and Sasha swear they’re going to spring surprise visits to all of us at some point during those months, and somehow, despite the distances between us all, I don’t doubt it.

Eventually, Marco and I are the only two who remain, and we linger around campus as long as we possibly can. My parents’ house isn’t that far from campus, and I know that they and Neesey will understand if I’m a little late to come home. But Marco has a long drive back to Jinae, and I really shouldn’t keep him any later than necessary. Although, I can’t help but notice that he seems just as reluctant to hit the road as I am to let him go. And so we waste time and sit cross-legged on the floor of my empty suite, where cushion palettes, pillows, and blankets had once reigned, and we dawdle until it’s clear that Marco will lose the daylight if he leaves any later.

I walk him to his car – packed full of clothes and boxes from his dorm – and he hesitates to even open the driver’s side door.

“You know,” he mumbles, leaning against the still closed door of his vehicle, “I’m sure if I asked, my parents wouldn’t mind if you came to visit some time… if you wanted to,”

I smile a small but sad smile, because he seems to feel just like I do: unwilling to separate, desperate to linger for any reason he can manage.

I nod.

“I can certainly try. And hey, maybe you could come visit too… We’ll see.”

Marco bites his lip and swallows thickly with a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

He doesn’t want to leave.

But he nods again and seems to resolve himself a bit, reaching back and cracking open the door to his car. He doesn’t turn away from me though. Instead, he reaches his hand out, cradling the curve of my jaw softly.

I nuzzle into his touch and step closer, leaning in for the goodbye kiss I’m sure he both wants and doesn’t want at the same time. Marco holds my lips against his own for a moment, body motionless for a blessed few seconds before he hesitantly pulls away and wraps his arms around my waist to pull me into a hug. My arms lace around his shoulders without a second thought, and I bury my face against his neck if only to breathe him in one last time before I have to let him go.  

We only part when we know we absolutely must, even if neither of us wants to. Marco nods solemnly, fingers gripping my hips with one last squeeze before releasing me softly. He straightens his back and opens up his car door as I force myself to take a step away from him. He starts to slide himself into the driver’s seat but he pauses, turning his gaze to me once more.

“Jean?” He says softly.

“Yeah?”

There’s a moment when Marco waits – just long enough for a breath – before he tilts his head a bit and speaks with a fragile but convicted surety.

“I uh… I just want to say that… I… I love you.”

My chest flutters for a moment, and I don’t hesitate to step right back up to him to steal just one more kiss from him.

“I love you too,” I tell him firmly.

And that’s that. He smiles at me and tells me he’ll call as soon as he gets into Jinae. And I nod as he closes his door, waving as he drives out of the parking lot and out of my sight.

**::**

And you know, I wish that I could tell you that my summer is full of Marco. I wish I could say that he came to visit and stayed for a while and that my family welcomed him with open arms. I wish I could tell you that I met his parents and they adored me and started calling me ‘son’ immediately. I wish I could tell you that I got to feel his lips, to taste his words, to breathe him in at least a few times.

But I can’t tell you that.

No, the truth is that, unfortunately, Marco and I don’t see each other over the course of the next couple months. Not for lack of trying, though. But due to a combination of conflicting familial obligations and bad timing, we don’t manage to span the four hour drive between us. We subsist instead on texts and phone calls… a Skype video chat thrown in once or twice, too.

I do manage to see Reiner and Bertholdt a couple of times. It’s a little easier for them, only living an hour or so away, to make quick day trips into town once in a while to meet up for drinks or dinner. But our outings are usually brief, and they return to their home together in the way I wish I could with Marco.

There are plenty of times when I catch myself worried, or even afraid, that perhaps Marco has begun to realize what a mistake I might be, that he’s begun to realize that there’s a lot more to the world than some stupid, grumbling kid who can barely handle his own emotions. I constantly wonder when Marco will realize that there’s a lot more out there for him than me – just like Daniel had realized it.

And yet… each time we text, Marco is full of excitement and detail, seemingly so eager to tell me about his day and enthusiastic to hear about mine. Each time he calls, his voice sounds happy and relieved, as if he’d been thinking of nothing but the sound of my voice since the morning. Each time his video comes up on my screen, he sits there staring as though I were the only thing he had wanted to see.

And, okay, so maybe it isn’t everything I wanted for the summer, but I suppose it’s good enough for distance and circumstance.

We don’t say “I love you” again. But I try not to think about it.

**::**

I return to campus as early as the school will allow me to. Partly, it’s because I’m ready to step away from my parents once more, to return to the freedom that campus offers me. But mostly, it’s because at the very least, I’m hopeful that being on campus might somehow make me feel closer to Marco. He won’t be moving in for another few days, and yet this campus – lush with memories and thoughts of him – feels warmer than my home, even in Marco’s absence.

The majority of my first day back involves moving all my things back into our suite. I’m the first in my suite – even the first in my hall – to move in, and I have to admit that in my friends’ absence, this suite doesn’t feel much like home. But after the day’s work, after hours hauling my things in from the car, after finally arranging my room in the way I like it, I begin to feel comfortable again. The suite might be empty now, but it won’t be for much longer. Soon enough, death metal will blare through the suite again, Connie’s snores will emanate from the couch where he will supposedly be ‘studying’. Hell, soon enough, Marco might even be wrapped up in my sheets once again.

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

The following day, there are only a few things that I still need to get done. I know I need basic groceries and things of that nature and I take care of the tasks with tedium, until nothing remains to be done but sit around and wait.

And waiting isn’t as freeing or comforting as I had hoped it would be. As the sun begins to set over the horizon, I find myself thinking only of Marco and the water. I glance down at my phone, hesitantly opening the screen and typing out a brief  _“I miss you”_ to Marco.

But he doesn’t text back.

By the time it’s dark, I’m restless. Feet twitching, fingers twiddling, I sit awake in my bed and sigh to myself. I glance once more at my phone, noting with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that Marco still hasn’t replied to my text from earlier. With a groan, I stand, moving quickly to dress myself and head out the door.

I know I probably shouldn’t – because campus safety is prone to frequent checks around the grounds in the weeks leading up to the start of classes – but in the mixture of my loneliness and yearning, I feel the pull of the water already. With a small bout of resolve, I head out the door and meander my way to the riverfront.

**::**

I’m not entirely sure how long I sit on the docks, staring out across the blackness of the nighttime river. Time flows a little bit differently atop the glassy surface of the water. Not necessarily faster, but not necessarily slower either; time passes here in ways I can’t always bother to pay attention to. And I like it that way.

It’s such a quiet evening – the heat of the summer is still thick and heavy in the night air, and the moon illuminates the gently fluctuating surface like white caps in the stillest of storms. And it’s beautiful. I think about Marco, and wonder how different things might be for us now on this dock. Would he kiss me without restraint in the darkness of the night? Would he kiss me in all the ways he had wanted to on  _that_ _night_ ?

I’m almost certain that he would. At least, I hope he would.

I yank my phone from my pocket, glancing down at the screen which only shines the time back up at me. No missed calls, no texts, no reply from Marco, and I can feel my heart sinking ever so slightly.

Dragging my thumb along the edge of my phone, I’m lost in my thoughts when a slight shuffling from somewhere behind me jolts me back to the present. My stomach twists. My first thought is that it’s Campus Safety; I hadn’t heard a car pull up, but the shuffling behind me is clearly that of a person. With students beginning to steadily move back onto campus, this is the time when they typically pick up the frequency of their patrols. And frankly, getting in trouble before many of my friends have even moved in isn’t exactly the way I wanted to start the semester.   

The sound of footsteps behind me doesn’t stop, but I don’t want to turn around. I’m too nervous that if I do, I’ll be met with the stern, accusatory face of Officer Leonhardt. And I’m hoping that perhaps if I stay still, the darkness will shield me, effectively hiding the fact that I’m loitering somewhere I definitely shouldn’t be. I’m mostly praying that Campus Safety officers operate by Jurassic Park rules: they can’t see you if you don’t move.

Alas, not so though, and when a voice calls out to me, I know I’ve been spotted. But what surprise me most is that the voice that sounds out isn’t feminine at all, and it certainly doesn’t sound like Officer Leonhardt’s voice.

“You got room down there for one more?”

I turn my head quickly at the sound of his voice – so warm and lilting, like a song I haven’t heard in far too long. Marco stands in the middle of the ramp, fingers shoved into his pockets, with a smile on his face. I want to get up and run to him, to crush him into a hug and kiss him until he can only remember the taste of my mouth. I want to kiss him until I forget that we were ever apart. But that’s silly, and cliché, and who knows if he even wants me to do that. So instead, I just smile and take him in.

“Marco…” I murmur, his name falling off my lips without a second thought.

“Jean.” He grins back. He takes a few long strides down the ramp until he’s close to me, plopping down to sit cross-legged on the edge of the dock beside me. He presses his arm flush against my own, and I can’t help but think of the last time he and I sat together on these docks in the dead of night. I feel a bit of that same nervousness now that I had felt on  _that_ _night_ . I’m not sure if it’s because the only memories I have with just Marco and myself on this dock are from the night when I was unable to control myself, the night I let all my emotions overcome me, the night when I pushed my mouth against Marco’s because I forgot that it wasn’t something I was allowed to do…

Or maybe I’m just nervous because I haven’t actually  _seen_ Marco in months…

When he had left at the start of the summer, he had told me with resolution that he loved me. I had told him I loved him in return.

But we hadn’t said it since. And Daniel had said pretty words like that too. And so I’m trying, desperately trying not to get too ahead of myself.

Instead, I simply let myself revel in the warmth of him, pressed up close against my arm even in the thick heat of the late summer evening. I glance down at my hands, rested gently in my lap, and a pick a little along the skin of my cuticle.

“I thought you weren’t gunna be back for a few days.” I say to him, not looking up, and trying my best to not smile. It’s a struggle to keep my grin at bay though; because even with all my conflicting feelings, I can’t help but feel happy to have him by my side again.

“Eh, I wasn’t. But there was someone I wanted to see, so…” Marco trails off, giving my shoulder a brief little bump with his own.

I don’t need to look at him to know that he’s grinning at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Marco shrugs.

"Surpriiiiiise.” He whispers to me, and I laugh, finally dragging my eyes up to meet his. His gaze is fixed on me, and I’m sure it has been since he sat down. But Marco looks so soft, so open, and the smile on his lips is so tranquil that I can feel the nerves inside me beginning to ever so slowly uncoil and relax.

Marco doesn’t say another word before he closes the space between us. His lips meet my own in a simple, chaste kiss, but he holds the contact as long as he can. He lets the seconds beat by, seemingly just enjoying the feel of my mouth against his own for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I hear him breathe in steadily through his nose, parting our mouths hesitantly and resting his forehead delicately against my own.

He doesn’t open his eyes, nuzzling his nose against mine, foreheads still pressed together as if he doesn’t want any space between us. And I’m not about to complain; I savor his closeness, revel in the feeling that’s steadily settling over me. I’m overjoyed at the creeping realization of the fact that I can kiss him here and now if I so choose.

I’m overjoyed that he was the first to close the space between us.  

Marco’s breath shudders a bit as he sighs, my name edging its way off his lips.

“Jean…” He mutters, “I missed you.”

Honestly, I mean to tell him that I missed him too. I want to tell him I missed him, I love him, I’m so happy to see him. But I don’t say anything at all. Instead, all I do is lean back in silently to claim his mouth once more. This kiss isn’t as chaste – a little bit urgent with brushes of tongue and gentle scrapes of teeth – but Marco doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses me back with fervor, one hand lifting to cup the curve of my jaw, if only to turn and angle my head so he might kiss me more deeply.

I suppose I was right. Marco  _does_ kiss me in all the ways I think he must have wanted to back on that first night on the docks.

He kisses as if he wants to make up for not doing it back then; I kiss him back with the urge to regain whatever time has been lost between us.

**::**

Marco and I stay on the dock for a while. We kiss and we talk, telling each other quiet things that perhaps shouldn’t have been said over Skype or text. We lie down together on the uncomfortable metal of the dock and stare at the stars, Marco making sure to point out any constellations he sees (although I’m fairly certain he’s making up at least half of them, because last I checked, Alpha Centauri was  _not_ part of the constellation Optimus Prime). But it makes me smile none the less.

I’m not sure how long we stay there – because time just has a way of slipping by when you’re by the water… or when you’re with someone who makes you forget that time was something you ever cared about. And it’s only as I lie there with him that I realize I have completely forgotten to feel nervous or hesitant. I feel like I had when I had fallen asleep with him atop that mess of a cushion palette on my living room floor. Or like I had when I helped to hoist Marco up to ride the Titan Statue in the middle of the night. I feel good. I feel like I felt when Marco told me that he wanted whatever we are to continue. And I could easily lie here for the rest of the night, feeling this way by Marco’s side.

But eventually, Marco sits back up, stretches his back, and turns to stare down at my supine form.

“You know,” Marco starts, “I heard a rumor this summer.”  

I quirk my brow.

“That so?”

Marco nods.

“Sure did.”

“And?” I ask with a small grin.

“I heard that Levi and Director Smith… managed to score us a brand new boat.”

I sit up, propping myself up on the heels of my palms.

“Nuh uh, no way.”

“Yuh uh, yes way.”

I leer at Marco skeptically.

“Who’d you hear that from?”

“Eren. That boy keeps some creepy tabs on Levi, by the way.”

I cringe, but nod none the less, because yeah, it’s true. And honestly, if  _someone_ were to get wind of valid information, it would most likely be a creep like Jaeger. That kid seriously needs to tone down his fascination with Coach, and  _pronto_ .  

Marco shoots me a devious look. He bites his lip, I guess in an effort to conceal his impishness, but the gleam in his eyes gives him away.

“Wanna try and get a look at it?” He asks quietly, as if it were some secret, as if there were  _anyone_ around to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“You think it’s here already?”

Marco makes a noncommittal “ _I’unno_ ” noise and shrugs.

“Only one way to find out.”

And with that, Marco hops up to his feet and reaches down to take my hand. He pulls me up but doesn’t let go of me, fingers lacing gently with my own as he and I begin to walk up the ramp back towards the boathouse.

In the dead of the night, the bays are dark, the only light the poor illumination of the moon. We squint as best we can into the bays through the chain-link gates, but the inside is nothing but a mass of shadows and darkness. Next to me, I hear Marco huff. When I glance over at him, he’s got his face smushed against the chain-link, his nose poked through one of the openings, eyes peering into the darkness as desperately as they can just to try to see  _something_ in the shadows.

“Ughhhhh,” he groans loudly, hand bumping the bay gate with frustration, “too dark, I can’t see shit.”

I shrug a bit and step back, idly glancing around us.

“Wonder if it’ll be for us or one of the other boats. Cause, if it’s for us, I dunno, I’m gunna miss the Pink Panth-” I only stop short when my eyes happen to pan over towards the road in front of the boathouse. In the distance, coming in our direction, I see a pair of headlights heading our way, but it’s only at the sight of the yellow blinking light on the top of the vehicle that I panic. 

“Fuck!” I hiss, not hesitating to grab ahold of Marco’s hand and drag him away from the front of the boathouse. I trot the two of us around the building with the sole intention of ducking into the locker rooms for cover.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I sure as hell wasn’t expecting the locker rooms to be locked. I probably  _should_ have expected that, given the late hour and the fact that the semester hasn’t even started, and yet, I still manage to plow forward at full speed into a locked door. It resounds with a thunk as I collide with it, and behind me, I hear Marco trying to stifle his giggles.

“Oh, oh my god, babe, are you okay?” He manages to whisper, choking out the words around his stifled laughter.

“Shhhh” I hiss back at him, feeling a smile begin to tug at the corners of my own mouth. I’m about to take Marco’s hand once again, to grab him and pull him around to the back side of the building, but the sound of a car door shutting stops me. Instead, I take his hand and drag him up close to me in a poor attempt to hide us in the shadows of the locker room door frame.

Marco doesn’t object, pressing himself flush against my chest, giggles still softly slipping occasionally from his mouth. I try my best to tell him to shut up, but despite my best effort, I know I’m grinning like an idiot, giggling too from the sheer ridiculousness of this whole situation. Somehow, he and I seem to be  _very_ good at being places we shouldn’t be when Campus Safety is on the prowl. Honestly though, the darkness of the corner and the door frame  _should be_ enough to shroud us unless the officer were to deliberately duck around to our side.

But the shadowed cover alone isn’t going to do shit for us if I can’t get my fucking laughter under control.

By now, Marco has more or less silenced himself, despite the huge grin on his face, but I cannot seem to stop. Marco tries to shush me, until finally, with an urgent, frantic smile, he claps his hand over my mouth to silence me.

But honestly, it only makes me want to laugh harder, suddenly remembering how I had done almost this  _exact_ same thing to him months ago when I had carelessly shoved him into a bush in a desperate attempt to hide from Annie Leonhardt.

Marco keeps me pinned to the wall, and I do my goddamn best to stay quiet, mustering up as much self-control as I can to not laugh, or giggle, or sputter around the hand that’s covering my mouth. Marco shushes me again playfully, ears perking up to the sounds of distant footsteps walking around the main bay doors at the front of the boathouse. From our spot around the corner, we can just barely see a couple flashes of light from the officer’s light, but it thankfully never peaks around the corner. Instead, we wait, bodies flush together, listening as the security officer walks back to their car, gets in, and drives away.

Only once we’re sure that they’re gone does Marco lower his hand from my mouth, and at this point, even he can’t resist another laugh. I fling my head back against the still locked door of the locker room and sigh, a couple more chuckles emanating from my gut.

“ _You_ almost got us caught this time, mister.” Marco jibes, punctuating his words with a brief poke against my chest, but his taunts only makes me laugh harder.

I expect Marco to step away from me then, to move away so we can compose ourselves, but he doesn’t. He keeps his body firm against my own, arms suddenly moving to either side of me, caging me in. He looks at me with a smirk and a glint of playfulness in his eyes, a gleam that’s apparent even in the darkness. The smile fades from my face steadily as I look at him, and suddenly, I feel very calm… as if this was where he and I were always meant to be.

One of Marco’s hands moves slightly, lifting just enough to drag his fingers through my hair. He strokes the errant strands tenderly, careful as he looks me over with a gentle fondness in his eyes. My hands find his waist without hesitation and he sighs.

“I meant what I said, you know?” Marco says with a sudden seriousness in his voice.

Absently, I tilt my head into his touch a little, staring up at him. I don’t have to ask him to explain himself; he does so at the first furrow of my brow.

“I love you.” Marco tells me with tender resolution.

**::**

Every story has to start somewhere, right? And that's a really cliché thing to say, I know, just bear with me.

Sometimes it's best to start the story at the beginning, but the funny thing about life is that things don’t always have a set starting line. Sure, we get a lot of beginnings in our lives. Plenty of endings, too. But life isn’t a story, and beginnings and endings are just words. Starts and finishes are rarely as clear cut as we’d like to believe them to be.

Sometimes they’re messy, sometimes they’re clouded and fuzzy, sometimes they take a really, really long time to show up. And sometimes,  _the_ _beginning_ is really just a cluster of moments that blend together until you have something  _whole_ to look back on.

I don’t rightly know what to call the beginning anymore.

But I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

This is our last year at T.U., and… I’m scared. I’m really scared. I don’t know if I’m ready to let this year slip by me. I’m going to miss my friends, and I don’t fully know what will happen between Marco and me once graduation rolls around. I’m afraid that this hodge-podge of a beginning, this catch-point with Marco, might end or wash out before I even have the chance to push it through.

But it doesn’t matter. You can only take things one stroke at a time.

And he and I still have a full year together before we have to think about the next stroke. For now, Marco cradles my body against the wall in the darkness; he kisses me with the sound of the summer breeze and the gentle lapping of the water against the rocks. For now, there’s love between us. And if this is what this year has in store for us, I think we’ll be fine.

We’ll be just fine.

**::**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, wow, wow, okay, so that's all there is folks. I'll admit, I'm a little sad to be finished with this story. This has been such a fun story to write, but I'm so happy to finally share the ending. I hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> I cannot begin to thank you all for the support you've given me. You've stuck through with me even though some things have taken me a while to update; you encouraged me and commented and reviewed and reblogged, and I honestly could not be more grateful. Thank you guys so much for taking the time to sit down and read my story. 
> 
> I hope maybe I even inspired a little flame for rowing in some of you ;) 
> 
> Now that this is finished, I'll be working on my next Jeanmarco piece, which I hope to get moving and posted some time very soon! Hopefully you'll come and check it out whenever it's up! 
> 
> In the mean time, I do have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and I'm always so excited to see and talk to new people, so please come say hey! You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche)! 
> 
> Once again, y'all thank you! Drop me a comment, or give the chapter post a reblog or a retweet. You're all wonderful, thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, ya'll.


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